LIBRARY 

UNIVs.rtolTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


cx  ; 


IN  LONDON 

THE  STORY  OF  ADAM  AND  MARRIAGE 


CONAL  O'RIORDAN 


Let  him  be  clapt  on  the  shoulder  and  called  Adam." 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT.  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,  BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.  8.  A.  BY 

THE    OUINN    ft    BODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N.    J 


TO 

J.  D.  BERESFORD 

WHO  WELCOMED  ADAM  TO  LONDON 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.   ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON       ...  3 

II.   ADAM  FINDS  ANCHORAGE  ....  12 

III.  ADAM  WRITES  TO  MR.  MACARTHY  .       .  19 

IV.  "MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING"     .       .  26 
V.   THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME       ....  34 

VI.    MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS     .       .              .  42 

VII.    MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN    .       .  50 

VIII.   WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON  .       .  60 

IX.   OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.B.S."  .       .  68 

X.   ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER     .       .         .76 

XI.   ADAM  GOES  ON  TOUR        .      ...      ..       .  87 

XII.   SUCCESS         .......  95 

XIII.  JANE  NIGHTINGALE 104 

XIV.  DUBLIN  DOES  IT 113 

XV.   MR.  SACKVILLE  BEHAVES  AS  A  GENTLE- 
MAN ........  124 

XVI.   LADY  DERRYDOWN  AT  HOME    .       .       .  131 

XVII.    How  THE  MARCHES  A  ESCAPED  .       .       .139 

XVIII.    MORE  COMPANY  FOR  SIR  DAVID      .       .  146 

XIX.   ADAM  PROSPERS 153 

XX.   IN     THE     SHADOW     OF     WESTMINSTER 

CATHEDRAL      .......  161 

XXI.   THE  PROBLEM  OF  MARRIAGE   .       .       .  169 

XXII.   THE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED        .  177 

XXIII.  THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY        .       .       .186 

XXIV.  To  FIGHT  OR  NOT  TO  FIGHT    .       .       .  195 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV.  MAJOR  MACFADDEN  SMITH      .•      .      ...  203 

XXVI.  A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  .       .      ,..      :.  211 

XXVII.  IN  THE  TEMPLE                 .       .      ...      :.  221 

XXVIII.  ADAM  Is  OFFENDED          .       .       .       .  231 

XXIX.  AT  THE  GARAGE  .      ...      :..      ..      ..       .  238 

XXX.  BARBARA        ........  244 

XXXI.  DEUTSCHLAND  UEBER  Miss  DURWARD  .  251 

XXXII.  MR.  DUVAL  ADVISES   ,       ...      ..      ..       ..  257 

XXXIII.  ADAM  ACCELERATES     .       ..      ...      .       .  264 

XXXIV.  Our  OF  GEAR              .       .      ..      ...      ,  272 

XXXV.  SURRENDER   „       .       ......  280 

XXXVI.  LONDON'S  LAST  AHI-RAID  .       .       >      ..  287 

XXXVII.  AND  So  THEY  WERE  MARRIED       .       .  297 

XXXVIII.  AND  LIVED  HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER  ?  .       .  305 


IN   LONDON 


CHAPTER  ONE 
ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON 

ON  a  spring  morning  in  the  second  decade  of  the  twentieth 
century,  a  young  man  came  out  of  Paddington  Station  and 
looked  for  the  first  time,  with  doubtful  eyes,  upon  the  world 
of  London.  He  was  a  very  young  man,  not  quite  seventeen, 
yet  in  essentials  was  he  a  man,  and,  what  in  the  eyes  of  a 
few  million  people  is  for  some  odd  reason  accounted  some- 
thing more,  an  Irishman. 

If  you  had  asked  his  name  as  he  came  out  of  the  station 
he  would  almost  certainly  have  told  you,  unsuspicious  of 
your  good  faith  and  right  to  question  him,  that  it  was  Adam 
Macfadden.  But  names  more  glorious,  if  no  more  distinc- 
tive, might  be  obtained  for  half  a  crown  on  application  for 
a  copy  of  his  baptismal  certificate  at  the  Pro-Cathedral  or 
Church  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  in  Marl- 
borough  Street,  Dublin.  The  names  given  him  in  the  hope 
of  making  him  a  Chrisom  child  (such  as  even  in  old  age 
was  Falstaff)  were  Adam  Byron  O'Toole  Dudley  Wyndham 
and  Innocent.  Names,  as  was  observed  on  that  occasion  by 
Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  his  more  than  godfather,  to  Mr. 
Malachy  Macfadden,  who  probably  conceived  himself  to  be 
no  less,  that  sounded  nobly  in  the  ear,  cost  nothing,  and 
looked  well  on  paper. 

Adam  was  thinking  of  paper  and  the  things  that  look  well 
on  it  as  he  came  out  of  Paddington,  for  his  eye  was  full  of 
a  poster  that  had  obtruded  itself  upon  him  at  every  sub- 
urban station  through  which  he  had  been  whisked  into  the 
terminus.  He  wondered  why  he  found  it  familiar  and  what 

3 


4  IN  LONDON 

it  meant:  a  dainty  lady  in  pyjamas  was  pursued  by  a  bluffly 
eager  gentleman  in  a  nightdress  across  a  ribbon  of  letter- 
press demanding:  "Who  Can  Stop  It?"  If  there  were 
words,  as  he  took  for  granted,  at  the  top  of  the  poster,  his 
eyes  had  failed  to  catch  them;  but  he  guessed  it  to  be  the 
bill  of  a  play,  and  not  the  sort  of  play  that  he  would  admit 
had  any  interest  for  him.  .  .  .  The  whole  thing  was  absurd 
and  a  little  indelicate.  .  .  .  Yet  he  felt  an  interest  in  that 
poster  as  though  that  lady  and  that  gentleman  were  old  ac- 
quaintances encountered  in  a  foreign  land.  Amidst  the 
bustle  of  the  arrival  platform  he  seemed  to  see  them  running 
to  meet  him,  crying :  "Here  we  are  again !  You  have  known 
us  all  your  life."  Yet  his  eye  had  enough  knowledge  of 
posters  to  tell  him  that  these  had  not  been  exposed  to  the 
battle  and  the  breeze  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours.  .  .  . 
Familiar  to  him?  How  could  they  be  familiar?  As  he 
walked  out  of  Paddington  Station  he  dismissed  the  thought 
from  his  mind,  crying  aloud:  "What  rot!"  At  his  tender 
age  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  foresee  that  this  poster  was 
to  haunt  his  whole  future.  ...  It  seemed  to  him  merely 
odd  that  his  ejaculation  of  "What  rot"  should  be,  as  it 
were,  echoed  in  huge  letters  on  the  flank  of  some  vehicle 
that  roared  past  him  as  he  emerged  from  the  gloom  of  the 
roofed  station-yard  into  the  open  street. 

He  looked  about  him  dazedly  as  motor  'bus  after  motor 
'bus  whirled  round  the  corner  of  Eastbourne  Terrace  on  his 
right  hand  side  and  charged  down  Praed  Street  on  his  left. 
Motor  'buses  were  new  monsters  to  him,  less  tremendous 
than  Mr.  Murphy's  trams,  with  which  he  had  been  familiar 
all  his  life  as  they  groaned  round  the  corners  of  narrow 
Dublin  streets  or  thundered  Jove-like  through  the  broader 
thoroughfares  of  that  stately  city.  Stately  indeed  did  Dub- 
lin loom  up  in  the  memory  of  Adam  as  he  stood  outside 
Paddington  Station,  contemplating  the  mean  hurry-skurry  of 
Praed  Street.  He  had  understood  that  Paddington  was  al- 


ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON  5 

most  in  the  heart  of  the  West  End  of  London,  at  all  events 
nearer  to  it  than  any  other  of  the  great  railway  termini, 
and  behold,  it  stood  in  a  street  paltrier  to  look  upon  than 
Westland  Row ;  though,  facing  south,  it  had  the  advantage 
of  more  sunlight.  He  liked  the  sunlight;  for  only  a  few 
days  had  passed  since  he  believed  for  a  bad  quarter  of  an 
hour  that  he  had  seen  the  last  of  it :  fighting  for  life  in  the 
waters  of  the  Liffey  he  had  imagined  himself  being  borne  by 
their  tide  through  the  gates  of  hell  or  nothingness,  but  in- 
stead they  had  carried  him  across  St.  George's  Channel  to 
Bristol,  whence  the  best  laid  line  of  railway  in  the  world 
had  sped  him  on,  not  clearly  knowing  why,  to  London. 
...  A  clock  somewhere  struck  and  whistles  blew,  it  was 
midday:  real  midday;  for  Summer  Time,  though  invented, 
was  not  yet  enforced. 

Adam  put  his  hand  to  the  left  breast  pocket  of  his  waist- 
coat, produced  a  thin  wisp  of  notes  that  showed  traces  of 
their  escape  from  pulping,  and  counted  them,  looked  at  the 
hotel,  shook  his  head,  walked  past  it  once  and  again:  then 
he  crossed  the  road  to  the  side  of  the  Underground  railway 
station  and  studied  the  fagade  from  there.  Still  undecided, 
he  walked  eastwards  so  far  as  the  street  corner,  read  the 
name  plate,  London  Street,  on  a  house,  instinctively  turned 
down  it  and  found  himself  gazing  at  a  familiar  name:  the 
name  of  Norfolk  Square.  .  .  .  What  was  it  that  he  found 
so  homely  about  this  ? 

He  knew  not  the  eastern  counties  of  England,  had  no 
knowledge  of  England  at  all  a  week  ago,  and  now,  as  has 
been  implied,  glimpsed  only  Bristol  fragmentarily  and  the 
borders  of  that  most  perfect  of  permanent  ways  that  Brunei 
had  laid  for  the  Great  Western  Expresses  to  fly  between  it 
and  London.  .  .  .  Yet  the  word  "Norfolk"  conjured  up  for 
him  two  familiar  ideas :  as  one  brought  up  in  the  Catholic 
tradition,  albeit  in  Ireland,  he  knew  the  Dukedom  of  Nor- 
folk to  belong  to  the  greatest  Catholic  family  in  England, 


6  IN  LONDON 

and  perhaps,  short  of  royalty,  the  world,  the  house  of  How- 
ard. It  was  odd  that  a  youth  who  had  learned  the  tenets  of 
his  creed  while  still  a  ragamuffin  living  in  a  Dublin  slum 
should  recognize  beneath  the  title  "Norfolk"  a  sort  of  spir- 
itual kinsman,  however  remote,  but  it  was  true ;  and  this  is 
perhaps  the  most  exquisite  beauty  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in 
the  Catholic  faith.  To  pass  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridicu- 
lous, the  word  "Norfolk"  was  familiar  because  every  day 
of  his  life  for  most  of  the  years  of  that  life  Adam  had 
been  wont  to  pass  and  repass  a  house  in  Gardiner's  Row 
(which  is  that  street  leading  from  Findlater's  Church  on 
the  north-eastern  corner  of  Rutland  Square,  Dublin,  in  the 
direction  of  Mountjoy  Square),  that  bore  in  golden  letters 
across  its  Third  Georgian  front  the  legend,  "Norfolk 
Hotel."  He  knew  not  why,  but  this  facade  was  impressed 
on  his  memory  as  were  but  few  other  houses  in  Dublin. 
.  .  .  The  two  houses  in  Denmark  Street  forming  the  Jesuit 
School  of  Belvedere,  the  house  of  Mr.  Macarthy,  his 
guardian,  on  the  north  side  of  Mountjoy  Square,  the  shabby 
little  house  behind  St.  George's  Church  with  the  cozy  rooms 
full  of  happy  memories  hidden  within,  and  the  house  in 
St.  Stephen's  Green,  sacred  to  the  cultivation  of  an  uncer- 
tain half-dozen  Muses.  And  out  of  Dublin  he  was  familiar 
with  no  house. 

But  Dublin,  wherein  he  had  lived  virtually  the  whole  of 
his  few  years,  seemed  as  remote  as  a  city  in  dreamland  to  a 
sleeper  rudely  wakened;  this  London  of  which  he  had  not 
yet  traversed  five  hundred  yards  was  real  to  him  only  in  its 
name,  which  was  the  reason  he  had  turned  down  London 
Street:  but  Dublin,  though  paradoxically  recalled  to  him  by 
the  word  "Norfolk,"  had  ceased  to  have  any  reality  at  all. 
He  could  scarce  credit  that  the  notes  he  had  just  looked  at, 
albeit  Irish  notes,  had  been  handed  to  him  across  the  counter 
of  the  Hibernian  Bank  in  Dame  Street,  by  Mr.  Macarthy's 
old  school-friend,  the  manager  in  person,  just  a  short  week 


ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON  7 

ago.  That  manager  was  a  hefty,  handsome  fellow  and 
something  of  a  sailor,  but  Adam  could  not  think  of  him  as 
a  real  man  who  could  cross  a  real  sea  as  Adam  had.  .  .  . 
To  meet  Mr.  Campbell  in  Norfolk  Square  had  surprised 
Adam  more  than  to  meet  David  Copperfield  or  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis.  For  to  Adam  London  was  a  literary  city,  and  to  an 
imaginative  boy  as  young  as  Chatterton  when  he  slew  him- 
self, or  Walter  Scott  perishing  of  senility,  the  literary  is 
more  real  than  the  factual.  And  how  could  Mr.  Campbell 
be  real  when  even  the  three  young  women  whom  Adam 
loved  best  of  all  had  lost  reality?  First,  there  was  Caroline 
Brady,  the  earliest  and  best  known,  indeed  the  old-fashioned 
would  say  the  only  one  known  at  all,  was  dead :  then  there 
was  Barbara  Burns,  the  most  beautiful,  was  married:  and 
then  there  was  Josephine  O'Meagher,  the  best  beloved,  was 
on  that  fatal  day  not  yet  a  week  gone  by,  the  day  he  had 
flung  himself  despairingly  into  the  Liffey,  become  a  nun. 
.  .  .  Adam  felt  no  emotion  about  any  one  of  them  as  he 
gazed  at  the  name-plate  of  Norfolk  Square :  he  was  as  one 
born,  already  adolescent,  into  a  new  world  of  which  he 
possessed  a  vague,  fantastic,  half-remembered  plan:  a  plan 
designed,  corrected,  and  blottesquely  revised  by  the  dozen 
writers  who  had  made  it  live  for  him  in  their  pages,  from 
Fielding  and  Smollett  to  George  Meredith  and  Henry  James. 
.  .  .  Even  so  far  as  to  Joseph  Conrad  and  H.  G.  Wells. 
He  wanted  to  see  where  Mr.  Lewisham  had  lost  touch  in 
the  mazes  of  love  with  his  schema,  and  where  a  disgusting 
Secret  Agent  (all  police  agents,  secret  or  not,  being  disgust- 
ing) had  plied  his  loathsome  trade;  but  most  of  all  he 
wanted  to  walk  arm  in  arm  down  Piccadilly,  from  Squire 
Western's  hostelry  at  Knightsbridge,  with  Tom  Jones  and  his 
Sophia  and  on  with  them  to  Covent  Garden  to  see  Hamlet 
played  by  David  Garrick.  For  it  was  the  privilege  of  that 
great  actor,  who  was  perhaps  a  shabby  fellow  in  reality,  to 
survive  as  a  hero  of  fiction :  to  Adam  he  was  as  vividly  alive 


8  IN  LONDON 

as  Mr.  Partridge  or  Lord  Fellamour  or  even  the  immortal, 
though  left  for  dead,  Philosopher  Square. 

The  bells  somewhere — perhaps,  for  the  wind  was  out  of 
north,  St.  Augustine's,  Kilburn — chiming  the  quarter  past 
noon,  found  Adam  still  contemplating  Norfolk  Square,  haz- 
ily tracing  a  third  idea  concerning  it.  ...  Was  it  not  in 
Norfolk  Square  that  his  guardian  Mr.  Macarthy  had  once 
lived?  He  knew  it  was  the  Square  nearest  to  Paddington 
Station,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  had  spoken  of  being  kept  awake 
by  the  rumble  of  the  Underground  trains  and  the  screaming 
of  their  engines,  then  propelled  by  steam,  and  the  shrieking 
of  their  brakes  beneath  the  house.  Adam  took  a  step  for- 
ward; for  all  this  clearly  indicated  the  north  side  of  Nor- 
folk Square.  Of  the  number  he  recalled  nothing:  he 
chanced  nineteen,  his  favorite  number,  but  it  was  not  that. 
He  saw  no  "Apartment"  cards  in  any  window,  and 
despaired  of  his  search,  when  a  taxi-cab  stopped  beside  him, 
and  a  soldier,  descending  from  the  seat  beside  the  driver, 
rang  the  bell  of  one  of  the  houses.  .  .  .  Adam  suddenly  re- 
membered that  there  was  a  war  on. 

It  was  not  the  sight  of  a  man  in  uniform  that  made  Adam 
remember  the  war;  for  Dublin  was  fuller  of  uniforms  than 
London :  but  then  it  always  had  been  so,  and  the  peaceful- 
est of  days  Adam  had  seen  more  soldiers  and  police,  that 
were  war-wolves  in  sheep-dogs'  clothing,  in  his  native  city 
than  so  far  in  this  London,  girding  for  the  third  round  of 
that  combat  in  which,  for  the  first  time  since  saltpeter  had 
been  diverted  from  its  use  as  a  preservative  to  a  destroying 
agent,  her  houses  had  been  knocked  about  her  ears.  In  1745 
that  fellow  they  called  the  Young  Pretender  had  brought  his 
tribe  of  lewd  Highlanders  as  far  as  Derby,  but,  God  be 
praised,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  and  his  trusty  Huns  had 
come  to  the  rescue  and  sent  the  murderers  packing  back 
north  to  the  glorious  and  crowning  mercy  of  Culloden. 
And  a  trifle  over  a  hundred  years  before  that,  the  trained 


ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON  9 

bands  of  London  'prentices  had  been  ordered  by  their 
masters  to  stay  at  the  defile  of  Brentford  the  Young  Pre- 
tender's supposititious  great-grandfather's  march  on  Lon- 
don. But  in  those  days  you  could  do  your  business  even 
so  far  west  as  Whitehall  without  worrying  about  the  big- 
gest artillery  duel  at  Twickenham.  And  then  there  were 
men  still  living  who  remembered  the  battle  of  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  which  deflected  so  many  of  Thomas  Wyatt's  army 
in  the  direction  of  Tyburn,  that  enthusiast  having  neglected 
artillery  preparation  possibly  because  he  had  no  cannon. 

Never  from  time  immemorial  (which  by  law  is  as  long 
since  as  Lion-Hearted  Richard)  was  London  town  treated 
worse  than  by  saintly  Lord  George  Gordon's  religious  en- 
thusiasts, who  burned  and  pillaged  it  for  the  honor  of  Prot- 
estantism and  broke  open  Newgate  jail  in  1780  (where  in 
1793  his  Lordship  was  privileged  to  die  in  the  faith  which 
he  believed  to  be  the  Hebrew),  until  one  summer  night  in 
1915  some  members  of  that  same  family  which  had  saved 
London  from  the  Highlanders  in  1745,  approaching  it  by 
the  only  road  they  could,  which  was  that  highest  road  of  all, 
the  air,  dropped  some  thermite  bombs  upon  the  most  exclu- 
sively Jewish  part  of  Shoreditch,  so  that  some  irreproach- 
able children  of  Abraham  suffered  a  worse  fate  than  the  per- 
verse citizens  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  But  by  this  time 
London  was  so  great  a  city  that  the  whole  German  air-fleet, 
from  the  most  portentous  Zeppelin  to  the  most  playful 
Taube,  might  have  sailed  across  it  in  line  ahead  loosing  the 
vials  of  their  wrath,  without  quickening  the  pulses  of  one  in 
twenty  of  her  parishes. 

These  facts  of  London's  past  and  present  Adam  knew,  so 
far  as  they  are  to  be  known  from  readable  history  books 
and  periodicals:  the  London  that  lives  on  printed  pages  he 
knew  better  than  any  Londoner  he  was  fated  to  meet,  but 
he  was  finding  it  so  difficult  to  make  the  London  of  his 
book-learning  square  with  the  London  whose  pavements  he 


jo  IN  LONDON 

trod  upon,  that  he  had  no  idea  where  he  would  look  for  a 
bed  to  sleep  in  and  a  board  to  feed  at,  when  the  taxi-cab 
and  soldier  man  in  Norfolk  Square  reminded  him  of  the 
war  through  bringing  before  his  eyes,  emerging  through  the 
doorway  of  the  house  at  which  the  soldier  had  rung,  an- 
other figure  in  khaki  whom  he  recognized.  His  stars  and 
badges  told  Adam  that  he  was  a  captain  in  the  Scots  Fusi- 
liers, but  Adam  remembered  him  as  a  clerk  in  Guinness' 
brewery  whose  rendering  of  the  more  sentimental  tenor 
songs  in  Viennese  comic  opera  had  made  him  a  popular 
figure  at  the  Muses  Club.  His  name  he  could  not  recall, 
and  Adam's  glance  in  his  face  wakened  no  recognition 
there:  his  eyes  had  for  Adam  the  look  of  a  man  going  to 
the  scaffold.  In  the  doorway  stood  a  portly  woman  in 
tears,  she  was  still  standing  there  after  the  taxi  had  passed 
away  beyond  the  church  towards  Edgware  Road  and  that 
sector  of  the  western  front  which  the  officer's  unit  filled 
a  gap  in.  But  Adam  joyfully  sprang  up  the  steps  and  in- 
terposed ere  she  could  close  the  door:  "Excuse  me,"  said 
he,  "but  didn't  Mr.  Macarthy  stop  here?" 

The  stout  lady,  whose  hair  he  noticed  now  was  very 
white  though  her  complexion  had  the  freshness  of  a  young 
woman,  choked  down  a  sob  to  answer:  "Mr.  Macarthy  of 
Dublin,  is  it?  Of  course  he  did."  She  pointed  in  the 
direction  wherein  the  taxi  had  disappeared:  "That's  his 
friend,  Captain  de  Frece,  just  gone.  .  .  .  Back  to  the 
front,  poor  dear." 

"I  know,"  said  Adam,  "that's  why  I  thought  you  must 
be  Miss  .  .  .  Miss  .  .  ."  he  looked  up  at  her,  "Miss  Quen- 
tin  is  it?" 

The  lady  shook  her  head  surprisedly.  "Not  at  all,"  said 
she,  "my  name  is  Durward."  Ere  Adam  could  explain 
(if  explain  he  could)  how  his  bookish  mind  had  said 
Quentin  when  he  meant  Durward,  she  added,  smiling 
through  her  tears:  "Whatever  my  name  is  and  whatever 


ADAM  ARRIVES  IN  LONDON  it 

o    x 

is  yours,  if  you're  a  friend  of  Mr.  Macarthy's,  come  right 
in." 

Adam,  gladly  obeying,  found  himself  in  the  hall  of  what 
appeared  to  him  to  be  a  most  luxurious  lodging-house: 
Miss  Durward  claimed  for  it  that  it  was  not  the  least  cozy 
in  Bayswater.  And  coziness  was  not  a  characteristic  of 
the  houses  with  which  Adam  was  acquainted:  Mr.  Macar- 
thy  had  a  fine  Persian  rug  or  two  in  his  upper  part  in 
Mount  joy  Square,  but  the  feet  did  not  sink  into  them  as 
into  Miss  Durward's  puffy  Axminsters. 

Miss  Durward  closed  the  door  and  said,  mopping  up  her 
tears:  "Isn't  this  war  just  dreadful?"  She  brightened 
as  she  added:  "You'll  be  able  to  tell  me,  perhaps,  how 
Mr.  Macarthy  thinks  it  will  end?"  Her  words  told  Adam 
that  he  was  already  at  home  in  London. 


CHAPTER  TWO 
ADAM  FINDS  ANCHORAGE 

Miss  DURWARD  led  Adam  up  a  flight  of  stairs  whose 
silence  beneath  his  tread  recalled  to  him  his  first  visit  to  a 
house  with  a  carpeted  staircase.  He  remembered  how  a 
lady,  as  stout  as  Miss  Durward  but  of  less  agreeable  com- 
plexion, had  essayed  to  win  him  from  the  Blessed  Virgin 
to  Christ  by  giving  him  a  penny  and  a  hot  bath.  He 
blushed  to  think  what  Miss  Durward  would  say  if  he  ac- 
quainted her  with  that  first  great  adventure  of  his  in  the 
society  to  which  his  grandparents,  though  neither  his  father 
nor  his  mother,  had  belonged.  He  hoped  that  Miss  Dur- 
ward would  be  so  kind  as  to  let  him  a  room  in  her  house 
without  inquiring  into  his  pedigree.  He  pinched  his  thin 
roll  of  notes  and  wondered  if  it  would  make  a  good  im- 
pression if  he  dropped  them  casually  on  the  floor;  finger- 
ing them  reminded  him  that  their  unnatural  condition 
might  stimulate  rather  than  soothe  suspicion.  ...  If  he 
were  asked  to  explain  why  he  had  tried  to  drown  himself 
would  she  be  content  to  know  that  he  had  done  it  for  love 
of  a  young  lady  or  two?  .  .  .  His  instinct  told  him  that 
Miss  Durward  was  romantic,  but  was  she  so  romantic  as 
all  that? 

She  said  as  she  bowed  him  in  to  her  "den,"  as  she  called 
it,  a  room  living  apparently  on  over-intimate  terms  with  the 
bathroom:  "And  so  Mr.  Macarthy  sent  you  here?  And 
what  does  he  think  about  the  war?" 

Adam  addressed  himself  to  answer  the  latter  part  of  the 
question.  "He  thinks  it  will  go  on  for  some  time." 

"It's  been  going  on  for  some  time  already,"  Miss  Dur- 
ward argued,  "when  does  he  think  it  will  end?" 


ADAM  FINDS  ANCHORAGE  13 

Adam  reported  Mr.  Macarthy  as  saying  that  it  would 
not  end  very  soon. 

"And  what  does  Mr.  Macarthy  think  about  America?" 
Miss  Durward  began,  but  without  waiting  continued: 
"And  is  he  married  yet?" 

Adam,  allowing  America  to  go  free,  said  Mr.  Macarthy 
was  not  married. 

To  this  Miss  Durward  rejoined:  "Are  you  sure?"  and 
Adam  confessed  that  he  was  not  sure,  though  it  seemed 
to  him  surprising  that  he  had  no  certainty  of  such  a  lead- 
ing question  in  his  most  intimate  friend's  life. 

"He's  a  remarkable  man,"  Miss  Durward  said,  "highly 
remarkable.  I  never  met  any  man  like  him." 

"Nor  did  I,"  said  Adam  fervently. 

"He  is  so  intellectual,  so  witty,  I  would  call  him  a  gen- 
ius," said  Miss  Durward. 

"Heis  all  that,"  said  Adam. 

He  thought  her  a  trifle  volatile  when  she  queried :  "Have 
you  seen  What  Rot!"  Then  memory  began  to  work. 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "but  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean. 
It's  a  play,  isn't  ft?" 

"Oh,  it's  more  than  that,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "It's  a 
work  of  art."  Adam  holding  his  tongue,  she  continued: 
"I  see  in  the  Telegraph  that  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin  is  going 
to  revive  it  at  the  Grand." 

"Is  he?"  said  Adam  lamely. 

"He  is,"  Miss  Durward  insisted,  "so  that's  good  news 
for  everybody.  I'm  sure  we  want  cheerful  things  these 
times  and  he's  such  a  beautiful  actor.  I  suppose  you've 
seen  him  heaps  of  times  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  him,"  said  Adam,  being 
perfectly  sure  that  he  had  not. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  Miss  Durward  exclaimed.  "I  suppose 
you  don't  often  come  to  London?"  Adam  was  trying  to 
make  up  his  mind  whether  to  confess  that  this  was  his 


14  IN  LONDON 

first  visit  to  the  metropolis,  when  Miss  Durward  went  on : 
"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  ...  You're  not  engaged  to- 
night, are  you?  ...  I  see  you're  not;  then  we'll  go  to  the 
Grand  Theater  and  you  shall  see  him  act  and  tell  me  if 
you  don't  think  him  perfectly  lovely."  Taking  Adam's 
silence  for  consent  she  went  to  the  telephone,  but  hesitated 
with  her  hand  on  the  receiver.  "I'm  afraid  they're  only 
playing  Shakespeare.  Will  that  bore  you  ?" 

Adam  found  his  tongue:  "Oh,  not  at  all,"  he  said 
eagerly.  "Which  play  is  it?" 

Miss  Durward  named  a  play  which  Adam  did  not  recog- 
nize; for  it  sounded  like  "Muchadoorasu,"  and  rang  up  a 
number  in  the  Kensington  exchange,  holding  a  conversa- 
tion of  which  Adam  caught  this  part.  "Hallo,  hallo!  .  .  . 
Is  that  Fox  Mount  Lodge?  .  .  .  Miss  Durward  speaking. 
.  .  .  Is  Mrs.  Onsin  in?  ...  Do,  please.  .  .  .  Hallo!  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Ons Oh,  that's  you,  Belle.  .  .  .  I'm  Connie 

speaking.  .  .  .  Connie  Durward,  yes.  .  .  .  Still  in  bed  are 
you?  .  .  .  Where's  Oswald?  .  .  .  Oh!  I've  a  young  gen- 
tleman with  me.  .  .  .  Rubbish!  .  .  .  Ah,  go  on!  ...  I'm 
not  like  you.  .  .  .  All  right;  I'll  wait  till  you're  finished." 
Miss  Durward  appealed  to  Adam.  "You'd  think  she'd 
have  finished  breakfast  by  this." 

"Artists,"  said  Adam  gravely,  "particularly  actors 
.  .  ."  but  Miss  Durward  did  not  allow  him  to  say  any 
more,  but  called  into  the  receiver:  "Look  here,  Belle! 

All  I  want  to  know  is  whether  you're  doing "  and 

there  followed  another  mysterious  name,  "  'Asuormuch- 
ado'  to-night?"  And  then  the  mystery  was  explained. 
"Oh,  it's  'Muchado/  is  it?  And  tell  me,  are  you  and  Os- 
wald both  playing?  Very  well,  then,  can  you  keep  me  two 
stalls  for  to-night?  The  young  gentleman  that's  with  me 
is  just  dying  to  see  you  and  Oswald  act.  He's  come  all 
the  way  from  Dublin.  It's  perfectly  true,  my  dear,  what 
I'm  telling  you,  and  what's  more,  IIQ'S  a  friend  of  Mr. 


ADAM  FINDS  ANCHORAGE  15 

Macarthy's.  .  .  .  Stephen  Macarthy's,  yes."  She  turned 
to  Adam.  "It  was  Mr.  Stephen  Macarthy  sent  you,  wasn't 
it?" 

Adam  tried  to  explain  that  Mr.  Stephen  Macarthy  had 
not  actually  sent  him,  but  Miss  Dunvard  would  not  listen. 
"Yes,  Belle,"  she  reiterated  into  the  telephone.  "He's  just 
come  frem  Dublin,  from  Stephen  Macarthy,  and  he  has  a 
message  for  you  with  his  love  and  a  kiss.  .  .  .  The  Royal 
Box,  did  you  say?  Yes,  dear,  if  it  isn't  wanted.  No, 
we'll  not  be  late.  .  .  .  Eight  o'clock.  ...  All  right. 
Good-by."  She  rang  off. 

Adam  conscientiously  endeavoring  not  to  listen  or  to 
wonder  what  Mrs.  Onsin  was  having  for  breakfast,  though 
himself  conscious  of  a  desire  for  luncheon,  let  his  eye  rove 
up  and  down  the  walls.  The  lady's  sanctum  with  which 
he  had  been  most  familiar  in  Dublin,  that  of  his  landlady, 
Miss  Gannon,  had  been  full  of  faded  portraits  of  holy  men 
in  dog-collars,  who  could  not  be  mistaken  for  anything  but 
Irish  priests,  with  their  air  of  plump  ascetism.  Miss  Dur- 
ward's  atmosphere  was  quite  otherwise.  She  had  many 
photographs  too,  but  hers  represented  handsome,  clean- 
shaven men  smiling  so  cheerfully  that  their  teeth  almost 
leaped  out  of  their  mouths,  and  handsome,  hairy  ladies, 
so  full  of  the  joy  of  life  that  the  other  features  of  their 
faces  appeared  to  have  retired  altogether  behind  their 
teeth.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  alike  were  in  evening  dress, 
but  with  this  difference,  that  the  fronts  of  the  gentlemen 
were  rigidly  stiff  while  the  ladies  presented  backs  so  loosely 
covered  as  to  tempt  the  lively  eye  to  travel  unhindered 
farther  than  Adam  would  have  thought  proper.  He  was 
already  pink  when  Miss  Dunvard,  quitting  the  telephone, 
said  to  him:  "You'll  remember  to  kiss  Belinda  when  you 
see  her  to-night." 

Yet  pinker  was  Adam  as  he  ejaculated:  "Belinda?" 

"Belinda  Bellingham ;  Mrs.  Onsin,  you  know,"  Miss  Dur- 


16  IN  LONDON 

ward  explained,  obviously  wondering  that  explanation 
should  be  needed. 

"But  won't  she  be  on  the  stage?"  Adam  faltered. 

"Of  course  she  will,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "she's  doing 
Rosalind  or  Beatrice  or  whatever  it's  called.  He's  awfully 
good  as  Benedick — but  we'll  see  her  in  her  dressing-room 
afterwards." 

"Oh!"  Adam  interjected,  much  impressed. 

Miss  Durward  went  on:  "And  remember  you've  got  to 
kiss  her  then.  .  .  .  That's  why  we've  got  the  Royal  Box." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Adam.  "What  has  the  Royal 
Box  go  to  do  with  my  kissing  anybody?" 

Miss  Durward  asked  him  a  question  which  it  seemed  to 
him  he  had  been  called  upon  to  answer  every  week  of  his 
life:  "How  old  are  you?"  and  when  she  was  told  that  he 
was  not  yet  seventeen  she  in  her  turn  expressed  surprise. 
"But,  anyhow,"  she  said,  "You've  got  to  kiss  Mrs.  Onsin 
because,  you  know,  I've  told  her  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had 
sent  her  a  kiss  by  you.  .  .  ." 

"Did  she  believe  that?"  Adam  broke  in. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "she's  given  us  the 
Royal  Box.  D'you  think  she'd  do  that  for  nothing?  Re- 
member now,  you've  got  to  give  her  a  nice  kiss  and  say 
that  it's  from  Mr.  Macarthy." 

"But  it  isn't!"  said  Adam. 

"That  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,"  said  Miss  Durward. 
"She  won't  mind  having  one  from  you,  anyhow."  She 
added  with  sudden  austerity:  "You're  so  young." 

"But,"  Adam  argued,  "I  don't  think  Mr.  Macarthy 
would  like  me  to  do  anything  of  the  kind." 

"Oh,  get  out,"  said  Miss  Durward,  and  ignoring  his  ef- 
fort to  continue  the  discussion,  headed  him  off  with  the 
question:  "And  are  you  going  to  stay  long  in  London, 
tell  me?" 

Adam  here  rallied  his  forces  to  the  attack  of  an  impor- 


ADAM  FINDS  ANCHORAGE  17 

tant  position  and  said  with  a  successful  air  of  nonchalance : 
"That  depends  on  whether  I  can  find  comfortable  rooms." 

Miss  Durward  looked  at  him.  "Have  you  only  just 
come  ?"  she  asked,  and  reading  the  answer  in  his  eyes,  said : 
"Well,  now,  I  call  that  a  great  piece  of  luck.  I  mean," 
said  she,  "that  poor  Captain  de  Frece  had  to  go  back  to  the 
front  so  suddenly."  She  added  apologetically :  "He  had 
only  a  bedroom;  the  house  is  so  full.  .  .  .  Would  a  bed- 
room be  enough  for  you?" 

Adam  saying  with  a  lighter  heart  that  anything  would 
be  enough  for  him,  Miss  Durward  said :  "That's  lucky 
now,  you  can  have  poor  Captain  de  Frece's  bedroom,  and 
I  dare  say  you  wouldn't  mind  having  your  meals  here  with 
me?"  and,  taking  his  answer  for  granted,  she  went  on: 
"You  haven't  come  to  London  to  join  the  army,  I  hope,  for 
you're  too  young  for  that,  though  they  want  men  dread- 
fully in  France,  Captain  de  Frece  says.  .  .  .  Has  Mr. 
Macarthy  told  you  whether  he  thinks  America  will  come 
in.  ...  One  o'clock,  you'll  not  have  had  lunch?" 

Adam  confessing  almost  too  readily  that  he  had  not  had 
lunch  nor  any  meal  since  an  early  hour,  she  rang  the  bell 
and  busied  herself  with  opening  out  a  folding  table  and 
laying  a  cloth  on  it,  talking  the  while.  "Don't  on  any 
account  forget  to  give  Mrs.  Onsin  that  kiss  to-night  from 
Mr.  Macarthy,  for  she  always  says  I'm  a  liar,  and  I  want 
to  prove  to  her  that  I'm  not." 

!  "But  it  isn't  true,  is  it?"  Adam  appealed  to  her:  "And 
I  really  can't  imagine  Mr.  Macarthy  doing  anything  of  the 
kind." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,"  Miss  Durward  answered,  without 
appearing  to  pay  much  attention  to  what  Adam  said.  "Of 
course  he  does." 

"But  Mr.  Macarthy,"  said  Adam,  "is  not  young." 

"He's  as  young  as  you  or  I,"  replied  Miss  Durward 
bafflingly.  "And,  anythow,  what  does  it  matter?  You've 


iS  IN  LONDON 

7^.  - 

just  got  to  kiss  Belinda  and  make  her  a  pretty  speech,  and 
that's  no  great  hardship  for  an  Irishman,  is  it?" 

Adam  was  seized  with  qualms :  it  seemed  to  him  that  one 
might  pay  too  high  a  price  even  for  the  honor  of  sitting  in 
the  Royal  Box  at  Mr.  Onsin's  theater.  But  he  was  silent 
until  Miss  Durward,  having  given  some  directions  to  a 
male  domestic,  vaguely  suggesting  a  Continental  equivalent 
of  Adam's  godfather,  Mr.  O'Toole,  in  the  days  when  he 
was  an  extra  waiter  at  Dublin  Castle,  said:  "Before  we 
lunch  you'll  like  to  see  your  room.  .  .  .  It's  just  as  poor 
Captain  de  Frece  left  it,  but  there's  a  clean  towel,  and  I'll 
have  the  other  things  changed  before  we  get  back  from  the 
theater." 

Adam  noticed  in  the  bedroom  looking-glass  that  his 
cheeks  were  very  red.  The  apartment  was  on  the  third 
floor,  but  it  held  a  large  and  comfortable-looking  bed,  and 
its  pleasant  outlook  south  across  the  square  recalled  to  him 
Mr.  Macarthy's  bedroom,  which  was,  however,  in  other 
respects  quite  different.  Mr.  Macarthy's  pictures,  for  in- 
stance, were  sober  to  the  verge  of  what  the  gilded  youth 
of  Dublin  called  boredom,  whereas  this  bedroom  which 
Miss  Durward  offered  him  had  its  walls  well-nigh  covered 
by  black-framed  French  prints  of  nude  ladies.  Miss 
Durward,  catching  his  startled  eye,  said  glibly:  "You'll 
excuse  the  naughty  pictures,  won't  you?  They're  not  my 
taste,  I  needn't  say.  They're  a  little  souvenir  of  Mr. 
Bourchier-Bellingham,  Mrs.  Onsin's  brother;  he  left  ow- 
ing me  a  lot  of  money,  so  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with 
them.  .  .  .  Besides,  he's  in  the  trenches  now  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  heartless  to  take  them  down.  What  would 
you  advise  me  to  do  with  them?" 

"Burn  them,"  said  Adam  firmly.  Miss  Durward  looked 
at  him  commiseratingly :  "I'm  keeping  you  from  washing 
your  hands/'  said  she :  "You  know  your  way  downstairs." 


CHAPTER  THREE 
rADAM  WRITES  TO  MR.  MACARTHY 

As  Adam  descended  the  staircase  alone  he  perceived  that 
the  walls  of  the  corridors  and  a  couple  of  rooms,  glanced 
at  through  doors  ajar,  were  hung  with  prints  after  more 
or  less  familiar  theatrical  portraits.  Garrick  as  Richard 
III.  and  Mrs.  Siddons  in  the  big  hat  in  which  she  sat  to 
Gainsborough,  were  conspicuous,  and  on  one  landing  hung 
Maclise's  picture  of  Malvolio's  wooing,  and  on  another 
Millais's  presentation  of  Ophelia's  death  by  misadventure. 
Adam  stayed  a  moment  to  look  at  this,  wondering  whether 
if  he  had  been  drowned  in  the  Liffey  his  fate  would  have 
been  chosen  for  treatment  by  a  member  of  the  Hibernian 
Academy.  Remembering  that  Barbara  Burns,  before  she 
had  married  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  had  told  him  sub- 
ject-pictures were  out  of  date,  he  dismissed  the  sad  but  not 
unpleasant  thought  from  his  mind,  exchanging  it  for  the 
on  the  whole  more  agreeable  attempt  to  guess  what  Miss 
Durward  would  give  him  for  luncheon.  Fate  in  a  pleasant 
mood  decreed  that  it  should  be  fish. 

"Upstairs  I  thought  you  were  in  love,"  Miss  Durward 
said,  giving  him  a  second  helping  of  plaice,  "but  now  I  see 
you're  not." 

"I  am,"  said  Adam;  for  he  could  not  bear  to  sail  under 
false  colors. 

"Since  when?"  said  Miss  Durward,  rather  archly,  Adam 
thought,  for  a  woman  of  her  age. 

He  answered  austerely:  "Ever  since  I  can  remember," 
but  when  she  demanded  the  name  of  the  object  of  such 
faithfulness,  he  weakened  the  impression  by  confessing 
that  he  was  not  sure. 

19 


20  IN  LONDON 

"I  see,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "you're  just  like  all  boys, 
in  love  with  petticoats." 

Adam  protested  that  petticoats  meant  nothing  to 
him,  and  to  escape  from  what  he  deemed  a  peril- 
ous discussion,  asked  Miss  Durward  if  she  were  on  the 
stage. 

"How  could  I  be,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "and  run  a 
lodging-house  at  the  same  time?" 

"But  you  seem  very  fond  of  the  theater,"  Adam  said, 
"and  you  know  a  great  deal  about  it,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  fond  of  it  enough,"  Miss  Durward  sighed, 
"and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  house  here  I'd  be  tempted  by  it 
sometimes.  .  .  .  Not  young  parts,  you  know,  I've  too  much 
sense  for  that,  but  Belinda  wanted  me  to  play  the  nurse 
to  her  Juliet  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  they  call  it;  she  said 
Shakespeare  wrote  the  part  for  me,  not  that  I  believe  that, 
I  needn't  tell  you." 

"No,"  said  Adam  rather  flatly,  adding:  "It's  rather 
coarse,  isn't  it?" 

"Is  it?"  said  Miss  Durward.  "Belinda  didn't  tell  me 
that.  I  couldn't  stand  anything  coarse."  She  rose 
from  her  place  and  selected  a  volume  from  the  shelf. 
"Really  coarse,  is  it?"  Adam  was  alarmed  that  she  was 
going  to  look  for  the  coarse  passages  then  and  there,  but 
she  laid  it  down,  saying:  "That'll  keep  till  bedtime." 
Adam  breathed  again.  "I  always  read  myself  to  sleep," 
she  explained,  "but  Shakespeare's  very  hard  to  understand 
unless  you  see  him  acted.  I  suppose  you've  seen  most  of 
his  plays?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Adam  deprecatingly. 

"I  am  surprised  at  that,"  said  his  hostess.  "I'd  have 
thought  Mr.  Macarthy  would  bring  you  to  everything; 
he's  got  such  good  taste  and  can  get  free  seats." 

Adam  indignantly  protested:  "Mr.  Macarthy  always 
pays  when  he  goes  to  the  theater." 


'ADAM  WIRES  TO  MR.  MACARTHY          21 

"I  call  that  dreadful  waste  of  money,"  said  she,  "to  pay 
for  a  thing  when  you  can  get  it  for  nothing." 

Adam  looked  at  her  open-eyed.  "But  how  would  a  thea- 
ter pay  if  every  one  went  in  free?" 

Her  answer  to  this  question  was  simplicity  itself:  "Very 
few  theaters  pay,  whether  people  go  in  free  or  not." 

"But  how  do  they  keep  open  then?"  Adam  insisted. 

"Very  few  of  them  keep  open  for  long,"  said  Miss  Dur- 
ward,  and  he  felt  it  useless  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"Mind  you,"  said  Miss  Durward,  "the  Onsins  are  differ- 
ent from  other  managers ;  he's  such  a  clever  man,  and  what 
is  more  important  he  has  such  wonderful  luck,  I  don't 
think  he  has  one  failure  in  three,  and  of  course  a  success 
like  What  Rot!  would  pay  for  ten  ordinary  failures.  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  if  now  with  the  war  on  he  made  a 
fresh  fortune  out  of  this  revival  of  it.  Read  that."  She 
handed  Adam  the  newspaper. 

Adam  read:  "It  will  be  agreeable  news  to  the  many 
admirers  of  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin  and  Miss  Belinda  Belling- 
ham  that  when  the  successful  run  of  Shakespeare's  Much 
Ado  About  Nothing  comes  to  an  end  at  the  palatial  house 
in  Regent  Street  it  will  be  succeeded,  not  by  As  You  Like 
It,  as  originally  intended,  but  by  Mr.  Onsin's  own  play 
which  first  brought  him  fame,  What  Rot!  Mr.  Onsin 
feels  that  this  is  more  suitable  to  the  strenuous  times  we 
live  in  than  Shakespeare's  perhaps  too  literary  comedy. 
Many  will  sympathize  with  Mr.  Onsin  in  the  sentiment 
that  those  on  leave  from  the  front  do  not  wish  to  be  re- 
minded of  the  grim  realities  they  leave  behind  by  such 
incidents  as  the  combat  between  Orlando  and  Charles  the 
Wrestler.  Whatever  fault  Aristotle  might  find  in  the  story 
of  Mr.  Onsin's  great  play,  which  has  now  been  performed 
in  one  or  other  part  of  the  globe  not  far  short  of  five 
thousand  times,  which  means  that  the  Pit  tickets  alone  if 
laid  end  to  end  would  be  sufficient  to  encircle  the  German 


22  IN  LONDON 

Fleet  (as  Mr.  Rubenstein,  the  courteous  Acting  Manager 
at  the  Grand  Theater,  informs  us  to  be  his  estimate)  ;  the 
author  modestly  claims  for  it  that  it  contains  no  reference 
to  the  war.  Although  he  is  revising  the  story  so  that  it 
may  be  in  every  way  up-to-date,  Mr.  Onsin  informs  us 
that  it  will  retain  this  merit  when  he  gives  it  to  the  public, 
probably  on  Easter  Monday.  Needless  to  add,  both  he 
and  his  gifted  partner,  Miss  Bellingham,  will  appear  in 
their  original  parts  of  Lord  Algy  Taplow  and  Lady  Lucina 
Lovelace." 

"I  only  wish  they  were  doing  it  to-night  instead  of 
Shakespeare,"  Miss  Durward  explained.  "I  do  think 
Shakespeare  awfully  slow,  though  Oswald  Onsin  is  good 
in  it,  as  he  is  in  everything." 

"Is  he?"  said  Adam,  seeing  that  he  was  expected  to  say 
something.  "And  is  Mrs.  Onsin  very  good,  too?" 

"Gentlemen  like  her,"  Miss  Durward  told  him,  "and  so 
do  I,  off  the  stage.  .  .  .  She's  the  dearest  friend  I  have 
off  the  stage." 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  her?"  Adam  asked,  "since 
you  never  acted  yourself  ?" 

"Oh,  that  was  a  long  time  ago,"  his  hostess  answered 
readily,  "when  I  was  head  of  the  underclothing  at  Pea- 
oock  and  Ethelred.  She  got  all  the  lingerie  she  wore  in 
the  original  show  of  What  Rot!  from  me."  She  smiled 
brightly:  "So  it's  no  wonder  I  take  an  interest  in  What 
Rot!  is  it?" 

"I'm  sure  it  must  be  very  interesting,"  Adam  said, 
politely  stifling  all  accent  of  doubt. 

"Oh,  most  interesting,"  Miss  Durward  insisted,  "and 
that  apart  from  the  fact  that  a  great  part  of  the  play,  in- 
deed you  might  say  the  whole  of  the  play,  was  written  in 
that  very  room  you're  going  to  sleep  in  to-night." 

"Oh !"  Adam  ejaculated,  really  moved  by  this  news  which 
seemed  to  bring  him  definitely  in  touch  with  the  great 


ADAM  WIRES  TO  MR.  MACARTHY          23 

world  of  London.  "Did  Mr.  Onsin  stay  here  as  well  as  his 
brother-in-law  ?" 

But  his  hostess  failed  to  take  in  this  question  by  reason 
of  the  ringing  of  the  telephone  bell.  Immediately  on  put- 
ting her  ear  to  the  receiver  she  turned  to  Adam  and  sug- 
gested that  he  would  like  to  retire  to  his  room  and  rest 
himself.  And  Adam,  understanding  that  his  presence  was 
momentarily  undesirable,  withdrew  upstairs. 

He  did  not  lie  down,  however,  but  finding  writing  mate- 
rial on  a  small  table  by  one  of  the  windows  he  sat  down, 
to  write  a  letter  to  his  guardian: — 

"My  DEAR  MR.  MACARTHY,"  said  he,  "as  I  wired  you 
from  Bristol,  I  am  safe  and  sound,  and  I  only  hope  that  I 
caused  you  no  anxiety  on  my  account.  Things  happened 
that  upset  me  the  last  day  I  saw  you.  I'll  tell  you  about 
them  some  day,  but  can't  in  this  letter.  I  don't  quite  know 
myself  yet  what  happened.  As  you  know,  there  was  a 
fog,  and  in  the  fog  I  somehow  fell  into  the  Liffey.  I  sup- 
pose I  threw  myself  in,  but  when  I  found  myself  there  it 
seemed  to  me  I  hadn't  really  meant  to.  And  I  was  aw- 
fully ashamed  to  think  that  my  selfishness  if  I  was  drowned 
might  worry  you.  You,  who  have  been  so  good  to  me.  I 
won't  say  more,  but  I  got  out  somehow  and  found  myself 
on  the  Bristol  boat.  The  same  old  boat  I  used  to  watch 
from  the  Custom  House  steps  opposite  Liberty  Hall  when 
I  was  quite  a  young  lad.  I  wasn't  more  than  seven  then. 
Anyhow,  I  got  to  Bristol.  And  as  I  wired  you  from  Bris- 
tol, came  on  to  London.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to 
stay  in  London,  rather  than  go  back  to  Dublin  just  yet.  I 
feel  I  could  make  my  living  here  if  you  could  let  me  have 
money  to  carry  on  for  a  week  or  two.  Of  course  I've  not 
made  any  money  since  I  was  very  young,  but  I'm  sure  I 
could.  I  don't  know  how.  This  is  a  very  long  letter,  so 
I  won't  say  any  more.  You  will  recognize  the  address.  I 


24  IN  LONDON 

found  the  house  through  seeing  Mr.  de  Frece,  who  is  a  cap- 
tain now  and  just  gone  back  to  France,  coming  out  of  it. 
He  looked  very  sad,  not  like  he  used  to  look  at  the  Six 
Muses.  I  have  his  room,  which  is  lucky,  as  there  is  no  other. 
To-night  I  am  going  with  Miss  Durward  to  see  Shake- 
speare's Much  Ado  About  Nothing.  Mrs.  Oswald  Onsin, 
whose  name  you  perhaps  remember,  is  playing  in  it,  and 
Miss  Durward  says  I  am  to  give  her  a  kiss  from  you.  But 
of  course  I  won't,  as  I  know  you  would  not  like  me  to  do 
anything  of  the  kind.  Miss  Durward  is  a  funny  lady  but 
extremely  hospitable.  She  gave  me  plaice  for  lunch.  And 
I  could  not  help  thinking  it  queer  that  I  should  be  eating 
plaice  instead  of  plaice  eating  me.  But  I  said  nothing  to 
Miss  Durward  about  my  being  drowned.  I  think  she 
might  not  understand.  I  am  very  comfortable  but  home- 
sick for  Mountjoy  Square.  Please  ask  every  one  to  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  have  given  them  inconvenience.  I  heard  a 
lot  of  firing  on  the  sea  and  saw  a  warship  doing  it  between 
Dublin  and  Bristol.  They  are  reviving  W hat  Rot!  at  the 
Grand.  Miss  Durward  says  it  was  written  in  this  room  I 
am  going  to  sleep  in  to-night.  There  are  also  pictures  on 
the  wall  you  would  not  care  for.  But,  of  course,  I  find 
even  the  smallest  things  interesting  in  London.  I  hope  I 
have  not  spelt  anything  wrong.  Good-by,  dear  Mr. 
Macarthy,  I  am  as  always  your  affectionate  little  friend, 

ADAM." 

As  he  appended  his  name  to  this  epistle,  Adam  was  con- 
scious of  something  percolating  between  his  cheek  and  nose 
and  blotting  his  signature.  Hastily  he  blew  his  nose,  hear- 
ing knuckles  on  the  door  at  the  same  moment  that  the 
handle  turned.  "May  I  come  in?"  said  Miss  Durward. 

"Yes,  yes,  do,  do,"  Adam  answered  emotionally. 

"Whatever  have  you  been  crying  about?"  his  hostess  de- 
manded in  a  tone  more  genuinely  sympathetic  than  he  had 


ADAM  WIRES  TO  MR.  MACARTHY          25 

yet  heard  her  use,  though  indeed  she  had  been  cordial 
from  the  outset. 

Adam  answered  simply:  "I've  been  writing  to  Mr. 
Macarthy,"  as  if  that  explained  everything. 

Miss  Durward  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  "I  came  to 
ask  about  your  clothes,"  said  she.  "I  suppose  you  left 
them  at  Euston  or  did  you  tell  me  you  came  by  Padding- 
ton?" 

"I  came  by  Paddington,"  said  Adam,  and  reopened  his 
letter,  "but  I  didn't  bring  any  clothes.  I  must  ask  Mr. 
Macarthy  to  have  them  sent  on." 

He  read  misgivings  in  Miss  Durward's  face.  "It's  lucky 
there's  a  war  on,"  said  she,  "so  it  won't  look  so  odd  your 
being  in  the  Royal  Box  in  morning  dress." 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  not  go,"  Adam  suggested,  though  he 
hoped  the  proposal  would  not  be  accepted. 

"Oh,  it  won't  matter  at  all,"  Miss  Durward  said.  "I'll 
wear  enough  for  both  of  us,  and  you  can  sit  in  the  back 
of  the  box  and  people  will  think  you're  my  son  from  Eton." 

"Have  you  a  son  at  Eton?"  Adam  asked  absent-mind- 
edly, then  added  confusedly :  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"You  ought,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Durward  apparently 
without  taking  great  offense.  "I  suppose  you  think  be- 
cause I  haven't  the  Tieart  to  burn  poor  Bourchier-Belling- 
ham's  pictures,  or  send  them  to  be  sold  for  the  Red  Cross, 
that  I'm  no  better  than  an  actress." 

"I  never  thought  anything  of  the  kind,"  Adam  assured 
her. 

"Didn't  you?"  said  Miss  Durward  laughing.  "And 
what  do  you  know  about  actresses,  anyhow?" 

Adam  was  too  discreet  to  say  what  he  knew  about  ac- 
tresses, but  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  trying  to 
look  as  if  he  knew  a  lot.  "Well,  whether  you  do  or  you 
don't,"  Miss  Durward  concluded,  "you'd  better  go  out  and 
buy  yourself  a  clean  collar  and  shirt  to  kiss  Mrs.  Onsin  in." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 
"MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING" 

FROM  Norfolk  Square  Adam  was  taken  by  his  hostess  in 
a  taxi-cab  to  the  Grand  Theater.  Under  her  direction  he 
had  bought  at  a  shop  opposite  Paddington  Station  a  white 
shirt,  a  white  collar,  and  a  black  satin  tie  to  replace  his  of 
green  Irish  poplin,  which  she  said  was  unsuited  to  evening 
wear  even  had  it  not  been  stained  by  water.  His  lounge 
suit  was  also  the  worse  for  its  immersion  in  the  Liffey, 
but  as  he  had  worn  it  that  day  for  the  first  time  and  it 
happened  to  be  a  particularly  nice  suit,  Miss  Durward  said 
that  he  might  wear  it,  and  did  not  insist  on  his  hiring  a  suit 
for  the  occasion,  as  she  rather  hinted  was  properly  his  duty 
to  the  Royal  Box.  "Mr.  Macarthy  may  be  a  socialist," 
she  said,  "but  I  never  knew  any  one  who  knew  better  what 
was  what,  and  the  Royal  Box  is,  after  all,  the  Royal  Box." 
Still,  she  permitted  Adam,  having  changed  his  blue  collar 
and  shirt  for  white  and  his  green  tie  for  black,  to  cling  to 
the  rest  of  his  apparel. 

And  indeed  she  was  right  in  thinking  that  her  full  dress 
would  cover  many  discrepancies  on  the  part  of  her  com- 
panion. As  Adam  could  not  describe  it  we  shall  not  ex- 
pose ourselves  to  criticism  by  attempting  any  description 
here,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  modest  lady  whose  pre- 
scriptive right  it  was  to  occupy  the  box  had  never  dreamed 
of  anything  like  it  in  all  her  days  and  nights.  But  there  is 
no  record  of  her  commanding  frock,  frill  nor  furbelow 
from  Mr.  Peacock  nor  yet  Mr.  Ethelred  (known  to  his 
neighbors  at  the  Greenroom  Club  as  Ethelred  the  Un- 
ready). The  odd  thing,  as  Adam  thought,  about  Miss 

26 


"  "MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING"  27 

Durward's  costume,  was  that  although  it  appeared  to  fill 
the  taxi,  covering  all  her  seat  and  a  great  share  of  his, 
there  was  but  little  of  it  covering  her  own  ample  self.  He 
believed  the  predominant  note  of  it  to  be  purple,  or  as  some 
would  say,  lilac,  and  others  mauve. 

But  from  the  moment  of  leaving  the  house  until  they 
arrived  at  the  theater,  Adam  was  hardly  conscious  of  his 
companion,  being  engrossed  and  a  little  alarmed  by  the 
mysterious  flight  of  the  taxi  through  the  dark,  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  oddly  silent  streets.  Used  to  the  resonant 
paving  of  Dublin  which  multiplied  every  crash  of  tram- 
car,  motor-lorry,  iron-tired,  horse-drawn  vehicles,  far  com- 
moner there  than  here,  to  say  nothing  of  the  hammer  of 
horses'  hoofs  and  the  heavy  boots  of  civilians  as  well  as 
soldiers,  it  seemed  to  Adam  that  London  was  tumultuous 
with  ghosts;  armies  of  them,  rushing  in  and  out  ghastly- 
wise  in  the  glimmer  of  muffled  lamps  reflected  greenly  on 
their  faces :  he  wondered  at  the  temerity  of  their  chauffeur, 
hooting  defiantly  as  he  plunged  into  mid-stream  in  what  he 
afterwards  recognized  as  the  Edgware  Road,  and  across  the 
alternate  spaces  and  defiles  of  Mayfair,  all  black  as  pitch, 
into  Piccadilly,  and  across  an  angle  of  what  Miss  Dur- 
ward  told  him  was  St.  James's  Square,  into  a  short  queue 
of  vehicles,  all  power-driven,  and  mostly  hackneys,  suc- 
cessively jerking  out  their  occupants  on  to  a  green  baize 
which  covered  the  pavement  at  the  theater  entrance. 

Of  the  exterior  of  the  theater  Adam  grasped  nothing 
except  that  it  was  very  big  and  much  bepillared.  .  .  .  Let 
us  confess  at  once  that  the  architecture  was  Byzanto-Pal- 
ladian  of  the  late  Victorian  variety:  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin 
had  collaborated  with  the  contractor  in  adapting  a  design 
by  his  then  Imperial  Majesty,  William  II.,  for  an  aquarium, 
to  the  purposes  of  a  theater.  Anyhow,  lighted  up,  the 
vestibule  presented  a  magnificent  effect  compared  with  the 
nebulous  darkness  outside.  What  elements  constituted 


28  IN  LONDON 

this  magnificence  he  had  no  time  to  judge,  being  conscious 
only  of  three  stately  and  beautiful  ladies  in  evening  dress, 
second  only  to  Miss  Durward's,  advancing  graciously  to 
meet  them.  One  took  his  hat  and  stick  after  mechanically 
offering  to  remove  his  coat;  one  offered  him  a  program, 
and  one  took  their  tickets.  He  supposed  they  were  rela- 
tives of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Oswald  Onsin's  until  Miss  Durward 
gave  perhaps  the  most  distinguished  one  a  shilling,  and 
said  in  quite  an  ordinary  voice:  "Thank  you,  miss."  So 
he  gave  the  lady  devoted  more  particularly  to  himself  a 
florin  and  was  rewarded  by  a  softly  murmured:  "Ta,  old 
dear."  He  blushed  and  was  grateful  that  Miss  Durward 
was  out  of  ear-shot.  He  hurried  after  her. 

When  they  were  alone  in  the  Royal  Box  Miss  Durward, 
still  further  loosening  her  costume,  said:  "I  do  think 
Mr.  Onsin  runs  this  theater  beautifully.  Having  three 
ladies  is  much  better  than  two  flunkeys  like  Herbert  Tree's 
around  the  corner.  It's  just  as  stylish  and  it  makes  you 
feel  more  at  home.  .  .  .  Besides,  Peacock  and  Ethelred  pay 
him  five  hundred  a  year  for  the  advertisement." 

"Advertisement  of  what?"  Adam  asked,  astonished. 

"Why,  the  robes,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Durward. 
"These  three  girls  are  all  trained  mannequins;  didn't  you 
see  the  way  they  moved  from  the  hips?" 

Adam  did  not  answer  this  question:  he  wished  he  had 
not  seen  it;  particularly  he  wished  .  .  .  but  his  wishes 
were  lost  in  the  strains  of  Mr.  Onsin's  orchestra,  which 
to  attune  the  minds  of  the  audience  to  the  atmosphere  of 
Messina  in  the  Middle  Ages  were  playing  "It's  a  Long 
Way  to  Tipperary,"  with  scholarly  variations  by  their  con- 
ductor whose  name  appeared  on  the  program  as  Mr.  Solo- 
mon Joystone.  But  Adam  was  not  critical;  he  was 
prepared  to  believe  every  claim  set  forth  by  Miss  Durward 
on  behalf  of  Mr.  Onsin  and  his  theater.  It  was  manifestly 
very  large,  very  well  lighted,  and  after  the  Dublin  theaters, 


"MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING"  29 

it  seemed  to  Adam  beautifully  kept.  The  Royal  Box  was 
an  epitome  of  comfort,  with  a  little  private  lavatory  in  one 
corner.  Adam  longed  to  go  into  this  so  that  he  might 
complete  his  acquaintance  with  the  ways  of  kings  in  their 
lighter  phases,  but  was  bashful  about  doing  so  before  Miss 
Durward,  though  she  herself  used  it  to  powder  her  nose. 

Mr.  Joystone  had  not  exhausted  all  the  possibilities  of 
"Tipperary,"  when  he  changed  it  for  a  few  bars  of  what 
Adam  had  heard  Mr.  Macarthy  call  oleaginous  Italian 
music,  and  the  curtain  rose.  It  had  not  been  up  five  min- 
utes when  Adam  felt  himself  on  fire.  .  .  .  Lord  knows 
how  or  why,  unless  perhaps  that  it  was  that  she  wore  green 
and  gold,  Mrs.  Onsin  as  Beatrice  reminded  him  of  Bar- 
bara. And  what  a  delightful  part  was  Beatrice!  In  the 
reading  it  had  seemed  to  him  dull,  but  then  he  had  read  it 
at  Clongowes  when  he  was  a  mere  schoolboy  of  thirteen, 
needing  to  look  up  every  other  word  in  the  glossary,  and 
then  very  often  left  in  doubt.  But  now  Shakespeare,  and 
more  particularly  through  the  mouth  of  Mrs.  Onsin  (ade- 
quately trained,  be  it  said,  in  the  tradition  of  Ellen  Terry) 
spoke  to  him  in  a  language  that  was  become  his  own.  From 
her  first  question,  "I  pray  you,  is  Signer  Mountanto  re- 
turned from  the  wars  or  no?"  he  felt  himself  longing  to 
converse  with  her  across  the  footlights.  .  .  .  And  how  de- 
lightful it  was  when  Benedick  came  on  and  said  for  him 
just  the  very  things  he  would  have  said  for  himself,  if  in 
more  diffident  language.  He  wished  he  had  had  the  wit  to 
say  to  Barbara  Burns  before  she  took  the  fatal  step  which 
made  her  the  legal  prize  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B. : 
"It  is  certain  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted: 
and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard 
heart;  for,  truly,  I  love  none."  He  forgot  for  the  moment 
that  there  was  scant  foundation  for  this  statement.  He 
only  considered  how  well  it  sounded  as  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin 
said  it.  Mr.  Onsin  was  indeed  on  the  stage  a  highly  taking 


30  IN  LONDON 

lover,  and,  he  gathered  from  Miss  Durward,  a  no  less 
successful  one  off  it.  Now  Adam  would  have  thought  it 
a  dreadful  thing  to  be  a  rakish  fellow  in  real  life;  but  it 
occurred  to  him  at  that  moment  that  it  would  be  the  most 
delightful  of  all  occupations  to  play  the  very  devil  with 
Women,  particularly  if  they  resembled  Barbara,  but  even 
if  they  did  not  in  that  harmless  world  of  lath  and  canvas 
where  the  loosest  morals  lead  to  no  worse  fate  than  to  be 
lowered  down  a  trap-door  in  a  red  or  green  light. 

It  was  a  stage-struck  Adam  that  helped  to  call  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Onsin  before  the  curtain  at  the  end  of  the  play, 
though  even  then  his  candid  vision  saw  at  once  that  they 
looked  less  agreeable  before  the  curtain  than  behind  it. 
Still  less  attractive  did  he  find  them  when  Miss  Dunvard, 
whom  every  one  seemed  to  know,  led  him  by  a  labyrinthine 
way  behind  the  scenes  to  a  sort  of  tiny  drawing-room  that 
lay  between  the  dressing-rooms  of  the  famous  pair.  Mrs. 
Onsin  reclined  on  a  sofa  drinking  beef-tea,  while  Mr.  On- 
sin, his  wig  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  sat  on  a  desk 
scowling  at  his  Box  Office  return.  "Damn  Shakespeare," 
he  was  saying  as  they  came  in. 

"Under  a  hundred  again,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Onsin  said  to 
Miss  Durward  by  way  of  apology  for  her  husband's  dis- 
tracted manner.  She  looked  at  Adam  approvingly. 
"Come  and  give  me  that  kiss  from  Mr.  Macarthy,"  she 
said:  "I  want  something  to  cheer  me  up."  Intercepting 
Adam's  glance  at  the  actor  she  went  on:  "Oh,  he  won't 
mind,  Oswald  knows  which  side  his  bread  is  buttered." 

"There  won't  be  butter  for  any  one's  bread,"  the  mana- 
ger said  savagely,  "if  this  war  goes  on."  He  qualified  the 
war  with  one  of  the  most  familiar  of  all  adjectives, 
which,  however,  Mr.  Macarthy  had  advised  Adam  not 
to  use. 

A  happy  thought  occurred  to  Adam.  He  knelt  and 
kissed  the  fair  Belinda's  hand.  The  movement  caught  Mr. 


"MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING"  31 

Onsin's  eye  and  he  asked  with  professional  interest:  "Who 
taught  you  to  do  that?" 

Adam  turned  to  him  with  his  ever-ready  blushes:  "I 
wasn't  taught,"  said  he,  "I  did  it  because  I  felt  like  it." 

Mr.  Onsin  eyed  him  curiously.  "And  who  taught  you  to 
speak  like  that?" 

"No  need  to  ask  that,"  Mrs.  Onsin  murmured. 

"You  must  be  pretty  young,"  the  manager  pursued. 
"How  long  have  you  been  on  the  stage?" 

"Never,"  said  Adam,  "except  that  I  walked  on  once  at 
the  Abbey." 

"Oh!  You're  one  of  the  Irish  Players,  are  you?"  Mr. 
Onsin  said.  "But  you  haven't  any  Irish  accent."  And  it 
was  a  fact  that,  except  in  moments  of  excitement,  Adam 
had  very  little  or  none  at  all  of  what  is  called  in  the  the- 
atrical profession,  an  Irish  accent. 

Adam's  truthful  soul  was  for  denying  that  he  was  an 
Irish  player  but  Mrs.  Onsin  forestalled  him  by  saying: 
"And  sure  and  arrah  acushla  machree,  why  haven't  you 
no  broguee  atall  atall  no  mor  than  my  hat?"  which  she 
appeared  to  conceive  to  be  idiomatic  Gaelic.  She  added 
to  her  husband:  "I  see  you're  thinking  of  him  for  Ned 
Burke." 

"How  wonderful  of  you!  quite  ideal!"  Miss  Durward 
gasped  incomprehensibly.  Mr.  Onsin  silenced  both  women 
with  his  hand,  continuing  to  address  himself  to  his  youth- 
ful visitor:  "You  say  you've  never  acted  outside  the  Ab- 
bey, which  doesn't  count.  .  .  .  But  you'd  like  a  job  on  the 
real  stage,  the  London,  or  more  or  less  London  stage, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"I  would,"  said  Adam  promptly;  for  this  idea,  so  mag- 
ically arrived  at  by  Mr.  Onsin,  had  sprung  to  full  life  in 
Adam's  brain  at  the  moment  Mr.  Onsin  himself  had  swung, 
triumphantly  insolent,  yet  not  discourteous,  to  address 
Beatrice  as  "dear  Lady  Disdain." 


32  IN  LONDON 

"Very  good,  then,"  said  the  actor,  "come  and  see  me 
here  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  That'll  do  for 
to-night,  you'd  better  be  getting  home." 

Miss  Durward  accepted  uncomplainingly  this  abrupt  dis- 
missal. "Come  along,  dear/'  she  said. 

But  Mrs.  Onsin  broke  in:  "What's  the  hustle,  Ossie? 
"We  don't  even  know  his  name  yet." 

"Time  enough  for  that  to-morrow,"  said  the  great  man 
impressively. 

"Oh,  Tosh!"  cried  his  spouse,  and  the  expletive  was,  as 
it  were,  emphasized  by  a  thunderous  crash  which  made 
Adam  leap  from  his  chair  and  stand  bewildered  while  it 
was  repeated  again  and  again  and  yet  again. 

"The  Huns !"  screamed  Mrs.  Onsin. 

Her  husband  nodded  portentously.  "I  had  the  warning 
half  an  hour  ago." 

With  trembling  hands  Mrs.  Onsin  flung  a  fur  coat  around 
herself.  "You  beast,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

The  actor  said  harshly :  "I  wasn't  going  to  have  my  last 
act  ruined  by  hysterics,  Huns  or  no  Huns  .  .  .  but  the 
sooner  we  all  get  home  the  better." 

Miss  Durward  was  already  out  of  the  door,  and  Adam 
saw  he  had  no  choice  but  to  pursue  her.  The  lift  shaft 
was  in  darkness,  so  they  ran  down  the  stairs,  a  dizzy  spiral, 
to  the  street  where,  no  vehicle  being  visible  save  those  in 
heedless  motion  up  and  down  Regent  Street  and  the  Hay- 
market,  she  led  him  at  a  trot  to  the  Piccadilly  Tube  Sta- 
tion, the  exterior  lights  of  which  had  been  all  extinguished. 
She  booked  for  Paddington  by  Bakerloo:  they  had  to 
stand.  Adam's  first  experience  of  an  Underground  rail- 
way and  the  crashing  and  roaring  of  that  overloaded  train 
so  tightly  packed  into  the  cylinder  through  which  it  sped, 
suggested  to  him  that  an  aerial  action  was  in  progress  over- 
head. It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  being  swayed  by 
Fate  between  the  alternatives  of  becoming  at  once  the 


"MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING"  33 

principal  actor  of  England  and  of  perishing  like  a  rat  in  a 
hole.  He  deemed  it  cruel  of  the  gods  to  threaten  him  with 
cutting  short  so  soon  his  promising  career:  he  could  not 
credit  that  he  had  tried  to  take  his  own  life  a  week  ago. 
Now  he  felt  himself  to  be  the  richest  drop  of  the  world's 
blood  rushing  through  its  iron  veins. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME 

EMERGING  from  the  tube  at  Paddington  at  the  quick  step, 
and  Miss  Durward  saying  little,  and  that  hardly  above  a 
whisper,  lest  she  should  draw  the  enemy's  fire,  Adam  had 
crossed  Praed  Street  in  doubt  whether  it  could  be  the  same 
thoroughfare  he  had  so  closely  inspected  twelve  hours  ago. 
For  it  was  now  midnight,  though  no  bell  rang  to  advertise 
the  time;  for  the  churches  were  as  circumspect  as  his  com- 
panion. All  lamps  were  out,  and  for  the  first  time  he  was 
conscious  of  giant  scissors  of  light  opening  and  snapping 
together  in  the  sky  as  though  striving  to  snip  off  pieces  of 
the  firmament.  Far  away  eastward  the  ear  caught  an  in- 
termittent thudding,  unimpressive  compared  with  the  four 
great  crashes  of  warning  or  even  the  roar  of  the  Under- 
ground train  battering  its  way  through  the  Tube.  But 
those  fiery  scissors  working  in  the  empyrean  were  cata- 
clysmal  in  their  menace,  as  though  they  portended  war  be- 
tween the  Titans  and  the  gods.  London,  which  had  become 
a  solid  fairyland  in  the  theater,  had  slid  into  nothingness 
again,  and  Norfolk  Square  was  but  the  profile  of  walls  of 
a  dead  city. 

Miss  Durward's  house  was  dark  within,  and  though  she 
switched  on  a  light  for  him  to  find  his  way  upstairs,  she 
counseled  him  to  go  to  bed  by  moonlight,  and  he  had 
barely  reached  his  door  when  the  stair  light  was  switched 
off  again.  Adam's  mind  went  back  to  a  bull's-eye  lantern 
he  had  purchased  with  almost  the  first  money  he  could  call 
his  own,  long,  long  ago  before  wars  were ;  he  wished  he  had 

34 


THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME  35 

that  lantern  with  him  now ;  this  thought  brought  on  home- 
sickness. He  did  not  want  to  be  a  great  actor,  he  wanted 
to  be  back  in  Dublin,  pretending  he  was  in  Greece,  with 
the  aid  of  that  bull's-eye  lantern  and  the  late  Mr.  Keats. 

The  panic  roused  by  the  four  sinister  crashes  in  the 
coulisses  of  the  Grand  Theater  had  momentarily  swept  him 
away  in  the  same  current  with  his  hostess,  and  in  the  Tube, 
where  she  had  felt  herself  comparatively  safe,  he  had  sweated 
with  terror,  but  now  that  he  was  alone  again  quietly  think- 
ing, his  sense  of  humor  brought  him  back  peace,  and  he 
laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  what  he  had  seen.  Apart  from 
its  vulgar  pageantry  he  had  no  fear  of  death  beyond  the 
natural  reaction  of  healthy  young  flesh  and  blood  against 
atrophy.  Even  in  the  Tube  he  had  been  less  terrified  at 
the  thought  of  his  own  sudden  end  than  by  the  vision  of 
that  mass  of  humanity  around  him  suddenly  reduced  to  a 
great  clot  of  blood  and  smoldering  filth. 

Groping  his  way  across  the  room  without  mishap  he 
drew  the  blinds  and  flung  wide  the  window.  The  giant 
scissors  were  still  snapping  at  the  moon  or  turning  Cath- 
erine wheels  in  impotent  delirium.  As  he  leaned  out, 
watching,  he  thought  the  thudding  receded  rather  than 
advanced.  Below  him  nothing  stirred  but  the  tree-tops 
in  the  square  ruffled  by  the  spring  wind.  .  .  .  The  spring, 
the  vernal  equinox,  what  a  wind  it  has  to  be  sure.  It  blew 
him  a  vision  of  himself  playing  Benedick;  Dublin  was 
again  forgotten  and  he  was  now  managing  the  Grand  The- 
ater, and  a  lady  with  all  the  charms  of  Barbara  Burns,  now 
Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar,  and  Josephine  O'Meagher,  now  in 
religion  Sister  Veronica,  and  Caroline  Brady,  now  no  more, 
combined  with  the  professional  technique  of  Mrs.  Osward 
Onsin,  formerly  Miss  Belinda  Bellingham,  was  calling  him 
with  the  mockery  of  Beatrice,  but  a  great  deal  of  truth, 
"A  dear  happiness  to  women."  He  turned  with  the  pride 
of  Chanticleer  from  the  window  to  find  the  saucy  moon 


36  IN  LONDON 

playing  all  too  brightly  on  Mrs.  Onsin's  brother's  art  col- 
lection, blushed  for  the  last  time,  and  went  to  bed  in  his 
under- vest,  having  forgotten  to  buy  pyjamas.  Instantly, 
air-raid  or  no  air-raid  (in  the  phrase  of  Mr.  Onsin),  Adam 
slept. 

The  next  thing  he  knew  was  the  incredible  amiability  of 
his  godfather  in  coming  all  the  way  from  Dublin  and  so 
early  in  the  morning  to  offer  him  a  cup  of  tea.  .  .  .  He 
rubbed  his  eyes.  .  .  .  No,  after  all  it  was  not  Mr.  Byron 
O'Toole,  it  was  merely  Tomasso,  as  Miss  Durward  called 
her  ministering  angel,  notwithstanding  his  desire  for  her 
to  call  him  more  familiarly,  Tceme. 

This  affable  Italian's  mastery  of  English  was  imperfect, 
but  he  suffered  Adam  to  understand  that  it  was  eight 
o'clock,  that  he  could  have  his  bath  at  half-past,  and  Miss 
Durward  would  look  for  him  to  join  her  at  breakfast  by 
nine.  As  Tomasso  was  leaving  the  room,  Adam  stayed 
him  by  a  request  for  sugar  with  his  tea,  and  he  returned 
to  the  bedside  with  profoundly  apologetic  gesticulations 
which  served  also  to  indicate  a  small  phial  half  concealed 
by  the  saucer.  Adam  reading  on  the  label  the  word  "Sac- 
charine," remembered  the  war  and  therefore  also  its 
knockings  last  night  so  near  their  door.  He  asked  if  there 
was  any  news  of  the  raid,  but  this  highly  technical  ques- 
tion, in  accents  to  which  Tomasso  was  unaccustomed,  be- 
came to  him  an  inquiry  as  to  whether  the  bath  was  ready; 
and  so  repeating  his  statement  that  it  would  be  at  half-past 
eight,  he  bowed  himself  out,  all  smiles  and  apologies. 

That  Tomasso  should  be  so  little  impressed  by  the  raid 
would  have  given  food  for  thought  but  that  he  was  anxious 
to  escape  from  Mr.  Bellingham's  picture  gallery  to  the 
bathroom.  .  .  .  Besides,  had  he  not  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Onsin,  fixed  for  eleven  o'clock  that  morning,  to  think 
about?  And  think  about  it  he  did  with  joyous  futility 
until  he  found  himself  sitting  opposite  his  hostess  at  the 


THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME  37 

folding  table  in  her  den.  Then  the  raid  recurred  to  him 
again  and  he  could  not  help  wondering  that  Miss  Dur- 
ward  said  nothing  about  it,  but  this  lady,  so  woebegone  and 
panic-stricken  when  she  fled  from  him  in  the  darkness  last 
night,  with  the  obvious  intention  of  making  her  bedclothes 
a  last  line  of  defense  against  the  destroying  angels,  was 
this  morning  as  blithe  as  ever  in  a  kimono  which  left  more 
to  be  desired  than  imagined. 

There  was  this  to  be  said  for  Miss  Durward,  that  she 
was  as  clean  as  Adam  himself,  indeed,  perhaps  cleaner,  in 
as  much  as  she  had  taken  a  hot  bath  and  he  a  cold  one. 
Her  whole  house  was  redolent  of  soap  and  brass-polish, 
and  even  Tomasso,  if  his  nails  were  as  black  as  Mr. 
O'TooIe's,  showed  a  passably  white  dicky  under  his  waist- 
coat and  his  face  was  far  from  dirty.  This  was  all  the 
more  praiseworthy  of  Tomasso,  for  that  he  wore  a  heavy 
mustache  of  that  kind  which  Victorian  cavalry  officers 
shared  with  the  heroes  of  the  concert  platform:  he  had 
been  such  a  hero,  though  unrecognized.  So  he  had  drifted 
into  his  present  more  remunerative  employment:  he  had 
a  sweet  voice,  better  suited  to  this  than  his  former  profes- 
sion, since  it  was  inaudible  at  a  distance.  Those  who 
could  hear  it  described  it  as  abnormally  alto;  and  for  the 
rest,  his  country  did  not  call  him  to  her  colors,  and  he  was 
too  modest  to  go  without  calling.  "He  is  a  topping  serv- 
ant," said  his  mistress,  "but  no  earthly  good  for  anything 
else." 

She  said  this  when  Adam  told  her  of  his  conversational 
cross-purposes  with  Tomasso  between  the  air-raid  and  the 
bath.  But  she  herself  said  nothing  about  the  air-raid,  pre- 
ferring to  turn  the  conversation  on  to  the  more  promising 
topic  of  Adam's  future  on  the  stage.  "I  felt  in  my  bones," 
said  she,  "that  he'd  do  something  for  you  the  moment  he 
saw  you." 

"Why  did  you  think  that?"  asked  Adam  modestly. 


38  IN  LONDON 

"Oh,"  she  returned,  "lots  of  things.  .  .  .  You  have  an 
actor's  face."  „' 

"What  is  an  actor's  face?"  Adam  asked,  not  being  sure 
whether  to  take  this  as  a  compliment  or  not. 

"An  actor's  face,"  she  readily  informed  him,  "is  a  face 
like  yours,"  and  after  that  their  conversation  revolved 
rather  than  advanced. 

He  broke  through  the  circle  by  the  question:  "What 
exactly  does  he  want  me  for?" 

"To  try  you  for  a  part,  sure,"  she  said. 

"In  what?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  it  sounded  as  if  he  wanted  you  for  the  revival 
of  What  Rot!  but  that  seems  impossible,  for  Oswald 
wouldn't  dream  of  putting  an  inexperienced  actor  he  had 
to  act  with  himself  in  a  part  in  London,"  she  added,  "and 
Ned  Burke's  a  good  part,  too.  .  .  .  Unless,  of  course,  he's 
saying  some  of  the  speeches  himself  in  the  revised  version." 

So  Adam  did  not  know  quite  what  to  expect  when,  leav- 
ing the  Tube  at  Piccadilly  Circus,  he  marched  down  Re- 
gent Street  in  the  brisk  spring  air  and  at  the  eleventh  hour 
presented  himself  at  the  stage-door  of  the  Grand  Theater. 
Asking  buoyantly  for  Mr.  Onsin  he  received  for  some 
moments  no  attention  from  the  occupant  of  the  lodge,  who 
was  reading  his  newspaper.  When  Adam  repeated  the 
question  in  a  voice  that  could  hardly  be  denied,  the  man 
looked  up  at  him  over  the  paper  and  said :  "Why  ain't  ye 
at  the  Front?" 

Adam  guessed  his  meaning,  but  amused  himself  by  reply- 
ing that  Mr.  Onsin  had  desired  him  to  come  behind ; 
whereupon  the  good  man  decided  to  lay  down  his  news- 
paper, saying  gruffly:  "Wel^anyoweyain'tereyet."  Which 
Adam  interpreted  as  meaning  that  the  manager  was  not 
yet  come. 

The  man  making  no  suggestion,  Adam,  a  trifle  dis- 
gruntled, hung  about  the  door  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 


THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME  39 

during  which  nothing  happened  more  exciting  than  the 
passing  of  a  stage  hand  or  fireman.  At  twenty  past  eleven 
two  ladies  drifted  in,  and  after  that  there  was  a  fairly 
constant  trickle  of  rather  elderly  actors ;  and  then  suddenly 
a  not  greatly  significant  figure  in  a  tall  hat  and  overcoat 
sprang  out  of  a  hansom  and  hustled  past  him.  Had  not 
the  stage  door-keeper  drawn  himself  to  attention  and 
saluted,  Adam  had  not  recognized  Mr.  Onsin;  and  Mr. 
Onsin  bustled  away  with  no  sign  of  recognition  of 
Adam. 

The  door-keeper  eyed  him  with  baleful  contempt.  "I 
thought  you  had  an  appointment  with  the  governor,"  he 
said. 

"Was  that  he?"  Adam  babbled  involuntarily. 

The  stage  door-keeper  spat  into  his  fire.  "Serve  you 
right  if  it  was  'Olinginbug,"  but  this  jest  fell  flat  as  Adam 
did  not  recognize  the  name  of  that  great  benefactor  of  the 
nail  trade.  He  was  mainly  concerned  to  pursue  Mr.  On- 
sin and  run  him  to  earth  at  once  lest  he  should  be  suspected 
of  slackness.  But  the  keeper  discouraged  any  attempt  to 
do  this.  "No  admittance  except  on  business,  if  you 
please!"  he  growled,  and  flapped  his  newspaper  in  em- 
phasis. Adam  was  wondering  how  Mr.  Macarthy  would 
have  pierced  such  an  impasse  as  this,  when  Mrs.  Onsin, 
bouncing  out  of  a  Limousine,  came  to  his  rescue,  as  Juno 
descending  from  her  chariot  to  succor  Achilles,  drove  a 
coach  and  four  through  it. 

"Hallo,  old  dear!"  she  sang  out,  "hasn't  Ossie  come 
yet?" 

Er«  Adam  could  reply,  Cerberus  was  out  of  his  kennel 
barking  apologetically:  "I  believe  I  see  the  governor  go 
through.  .  .  ." 

"Then  why  is  this  gentleman  waiting  here?"  Mrs.  Onsin 
asked  in  the  tone  of  a  manageress. 

But  Adam  was  not  vindictive.    "I  didn't  recognize  Mr. 


40  IN  LONDON 

Onsin  at  once,"  he  explained,  "and  of  course  he  didn't 
recognize  me." 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is,"  returned  the  actress,  "that  of 
course  he  should  have,  but  I  dare  say  it's  the  fault  of  this 
old  idiot  that  his  attention  was  not  called  to  you." 

Cerberus  growled:  "As  much  as  my  place  is  worth  to 
call  the  guvernor's  attention  to  anything  he  don't  want  to 
see." 

Mrs.  Onsin  withered  him.  "It's  more  than  your  soul's 
worth  to  answer  me  back" ;  whereupon  he  faded  out  of 
the  picture. 

Admirable  was  the  art  with  which  Mrs.  Onsin  carried 
her  voice  and  manner  from  the  minatory  to  the  seductive 
as  she  turned  to  Adam.  "You'll  think  us  savages,  but 
we're  not  really,  and  Oswald  will  be  awfully  sorry  to  find 
he's  kept  you  waiting."  She  led  the  way  through  the 
swing  doors,  whereupon  what  sounded  to  Adam  like  the 
roar  of  a  baulked  tiger  fell  upon  their  ears.  Mrs.  Onsin 
hesitated.  "Oswald's  taking  a  rehearsal,"  she  explained, 
"and  he's  always  nervous  after  an  air-raid.  Let's  just  go 
and  sit  in  the  stalls  so  that  you  can  study  his  manner  of 
production;  every  one  says  he's  such  a  good  producer, 
though  I'm  afraid  he's  not  very  fortunate  with  me." 

Adam,  meaning  to  be  gallant,  assured  her  that  he  thought 
her  performance  as  Beatrice  was  a  triumph. 

"It  may  be,"  she  answered,  "but  if  it  is  that's  in  spite  of 
Oswald  and  not  because  of  him." 

Adam  was  too  ingenuous  to  foresee  the  line  which  their 
conversation  was  taking.  "But  why  do  you  think  he  is 
less  successful  with  you  than  with  others?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  the  great  actress,  "I  hardly  like  to 
tell  you.  After  all,  we  don't  know  each  other  very  long,  do 
we?"  They  were  passing  now  through  an  ever-darkening 
passage  apparently  under  the  stage,  for  Mr.  Onsin's  yells 
came  from  above.  He  was  too  busy  groping  to  think  of 


THE  PORTAL  OF  FAME  41 

an  answer.  She  repeated  the  question  in  a  softer  voice, 
and  still  getting  no  answer,  went  on:  "Perhaps  you  feel 
as  I  do,  that  we've  known  each  other  all  our  lives,"  and 
they  being  now  in  complete  darkness  he  was  suddenly 
aware  of  her  clasping  him  in  her  arms  and  kissing  him. 
He  yielded  as  to  a  boa-constrictor:  not  that  he  was  afraid, 
still  less  that  he  was  fascinated,  but  he  was  grateful  to  her 
for  rescuing  him  from  Cerberus,  and  opening  the  impasse. 


CHAPTER  SIX 
MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS 

ADAM  did  not  resist.  As  they  stood  there  in  the  darkness 
under  the  stage,  with  her  husband  making  strange  outcries 
over  their  heads,  it  did  not  even  occur  to  him  that  he  would 
have  cried  the  louder  had  the  stage  become  transparent. 
For  although  on  that  stage  he  had  thought  the  wife  of  the 
actor-manager  a  young  and  blooming  beauty,  beneath  it 
she  was  to  him  merely  a  middle-aged  lady,  not  of  the  best 
style,  but  with  her  heart  in  the  right  place.  That  she  had 
once  been  wooed,  as  scandal  said  in  Dublin,  by  not  only 
that  admirable  procreator,  the  father  of  Barbara  Burns, 
but  by  Mr.  Macarthy  himself,  was  incredible;  and  yet  she 
said  to  him  there  in  the  dark:  "That  was  from  Mr. 
Macarthy,  now  give  me  one  from  yourself." 

At  these  words  Adam  started,  and  his  elbow  coming  in 
contact  with  an  electric  switch,  flooded  that  gloomy  cavern 
with  light.  "Damn!"  said  Mrs.  Onsin,  not  perceiving  the 
cause  of  this  effect.  "Who  had  the  cheek  to  do  that  .  .  .? 
Well,  anyhow,  it's  getting  late,"  and,  releasing  him,  she 
opened  a  door  into  the  orchestra  and  through  that  they 
passed  by  a  curtain  into  the  stalls.  They  glided  quietly 
and  unperceived  to  places  near  the  prompter's  wing. 

Mr.  Onsin  had  ceased  to  roar  and  was  walking  up  and 
down  close  to  the  footlights  with  his  arm  thrown  pater- 
nally round  a  pretty  young  lady,  not  the  less  pretty,  Adam 
thought,  for  the  tears  that  ran  down  her  cheeks  from  her 
great  eyes  turned  with  an  air  of  adorable  reproach  upon  the 
great  man,  all  dulcet  now  as  he  murmured:  "Picky  ickle 

42 


MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS  43 

sing,  mustn't  cry-cry  when  cruel  great  man  imparts  to  her 
his  art." 

Mrs.  Onsin  nudged  Adam  softly.  "You  see  what  I  have 
to  put  up  with  from  that  man,"  she,  as  it  were,  pleaded  in 
Adam's  ear.  But  he  made  no  answer;  for  his  sympathy 
had  already  gone  forth  to  the  young  lady  in  tears,  thinking 
that  she  must  be  suffering  more  from  Mr.  Onsin's  atten- 
tions than  his  wife  from  the  absence  of  them.  For  the 
moment  he  disliked  Mr.  Onsin  with  such  a  wave  of  aver- 
sion as  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  set  rolling  when  he  fondled 
his  wife. 

Suddenly  a  panting  small  boy  appeared  from  nowhere, 
and  running  after  the  manager  as  he  paraded  his  quarry 
up  and  down,  said  fearfully:  "Please,  sir,  I  can't  find 
Miss  Bellingham  nowhere." 

Stopping  dramatically,  Mr.  Onsin  tossed  back  his  hair 
with  one  hand  while  the  other  still  compassed  the  waist  of 
the  girl :  "So  I  am  to  be  kept  waiting  by  my  own  wife  in 
my  own  theater,"  he  thundered,  as  though  the  blame  for 
all  was  divided  between  the  call-boy  and  the  gods :  "And 
that,  although  she  has  the  use  of  a  Government  motor  car 
while  I  was  reduced  to  come  down  to  my  theater  to-day 
in  that  vehicle  of  prehistoric  origin  known  as  a  hansom 
.  .  .!" — his  tone  passed  to  the  pathetically  ironical: 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  reasons  that  I  need  not  explain 
to  you,  we  cannot  go  on  with  the  rehearsal  until  Miss  Bell- 
ingham thinks  fit  to  join  us." 

The  words  were  just  allowed  to  sink  in  when  Mrs.  On- 
sin, with  no  little  agility  for  a  woman  of  her  weight,  leaped 
from  her  place  and  up  a  .step-ladder  from  the  orchestra 
on  to  the  stage.  "I've  been  watching  you  and  Miss  Blake 
for  the  past  half-hour,"  she  blandly  announced. 

Mr.  Onsin,  releasing  Miss  Blake,  took  up  the  attitude  of 
a  good  man  more  sorrowed  than  angered,  but  Miss  Blake 
fretfully  blurted:  "I  like  that  'half-hour.'" 


44  IN  LONDON 

"Beginners  always  do,"  answered  Mrs.  Onsin  sweetly, 
and  content  with  the  effect  of  this  repartee  on  Miss  Blake, 
rehearsed  her  part  very  amiably. 

Mrs.  Onsin's  triumph  over  her  husband  and  young  Miss 
Blake  inspired  her  to  rehearse  so  well  that  Adam  felt  quite 
interested  in  her,  almost  as  much  as  faintly  to  recall  his 
feeling  of  the  night  before,  which  personal  contact  had 
banished.  She  was  utterly  different  on  the  stage  and  off, 
he  thought,  and  thought  truly;  for  she  was  so  different  on 
the  stage  that  she  forgot  there  the  things  that  interested 
her  off  it,  and  had  in  fact  from  the  moment  she  made  her 
entrance  quite  forgotten  Adam  himself.  Unfortunately, 
she  did  not  even  remember  him  when  she  made  her  exit, 
being  busy  with  the  learning  of  her  part.  Adam's  heart 
sank;  for  the  play,  whatever  it  was,  did  not  interest  him 
much  in  itself,  particularly  when  the  middle-aged  gentle- 
men, not  to  call  them  fogies,  whom  he  had  seen  enter  the 
theater,  were  rehearsing  scenes  in  which  from  the  words 
which  they  slowly  delivered  they  might  be  supposed  to  be 
playing  riotous  young  bucks,  to  an  accompaniment  of  hor- 
rible language  from  the  manager.  But  at  last  Miss  Belin- 
da Bellingham  pranced  on  again,  and  as  she  did  so  Mr. 
Onsin  called  in  a  loud  voice:  "Miss  Blake,  if  you  will 
take  my  advice  you  will  go  down  into  the  stalls  and  note 
how  admirably  Miss  Bellingham  plays  the  ingenue  in  this 
scene."  Adam  thought  Miss  Blake  pouted  as  she  obeyed 
her  master.  "Be  careful  how  you  go,"  the  manager  said, 
"it's  very  dark  and  you're  not  used." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Blake  stiffly.  "I  can  find  my 
way  quite  well,"  and  tried  to  come  down  the  ladder  face- 
foremost,  failed  in  the  attempt,  and  rather  confusedly 
turned  about  to  start  afresh.  This  time  she  reached  the 
floor  safely  but  only  to  knock  over  a  music-stand  which 
fell  with  a  crash  of  brass  against  another,  and  a  whole  line 
of  them  went  down  like  a  rank  of  tin  soldiers.  Mrs.  On- 


MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS  45 

sin  sighed  patiently:  "It's  no  use  my  listening  for  my 
cue,"  saM  she,  "until  Miss  Blake  is  quite  finished." 

"It's  quite  all  right  now,  dear  Miss  Bellingham,"  said 
Miss  Blake.  "I  am  so  sorry." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  dear  Miss  Blake,  that  you're  quite 
safe?"  called  Miss  Bellingham.  "Please,  dear,"  this  to 
Mr.  Onsin,  "see  if  Miss  Blake  is  not  getting  into  more 
mischief." 

Mr.  Onsin  threw  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
darkness.  "How  the  deuce  can  I  see?"  said  he,  "she  can 
take  care  of  herself.  .  .  .  For  the  Lord's  sake  carry  on 
or  we'll  never  get  done." 

Mrs.  Onsin  spoke  her  first  line,  but  ere  she  could  reach 
the  second  a  shriek  rang  through  the  stalls.  Mr.  Onsin 
swung  round.  "My  God!  What's  the  matter?"  he  cried. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Miss  Blake,  to  the  disappointment 
of  all  concerned.  But  Mrs.  Onsin  threw  down  her  part. 

"It  isn't  nothing,"  she  said  determinedly.  "I'll  bet  my 
boots  she  sat  down  in  that  boy's  lap,"  and  there  was  no 
more  rehearsal  until  Adam  had  been  haled  on  to  the  stage 
lest  he  should  distract  Miss  Blake  from  the  study  of  her 
art. 

If  Adam  understood  little  of  the  rehearsal  from  the 
stalls,  still  less  could  he  follow  it  from  the  wings:  he  was 
divided  between  the  thrills  of  sitting  on  the  stage  of  a 
London  theater  and  the  numbness  of  watching  the  barely 
comprehensible  from  an  angle  that  made  it  senseless.  He 
gathered  that,  whatever  the  play  was,  Mr.  Onsin  was  not 
taking  it  right  through,  but  hammering  at  certain  or  un- 
certain excerpts  here  and  there,  stopping  periodically  at 
the  critical  moment  to  say,  "Here  Miss  Bellingham  and  I 
have  a  bit  together.  We  needn't  rehearse  that,  need  we?" 
To  which  the  stage  manager  would  unctuously  reply :  "We 
know  that  will  be  all  right!"  and  shout  "Now  Mister  This 
or  Miss  That,  why  don't  you  take  up  your  cue?"  regard- 


46  IN  LONDON 

less  of  the  fact  that  it  had  not  been  spoken.  And  when 
one  of  the  elderly  men  foxing  young  protested  that  he  had 
not  heard  his  cue,  the  stage-manager  would  retort:  "At 
your  age  you  ought  to  know  that  the  chief  never  gives 
them." 

Adam  wondered  how  any  man  able-bodied  enough  to 
drive  a  tram  could  stoop  to  a  calling  in  which  he  might  be 
cursed  by  a  Mr.  Onsin  or  jeered  at  by  his  lieutenant.  He 
was  tempted  to  slip  out  of  the  theater  and  retire  to  Nor- 
folk Square;  for  so  far  the  manager  had  taken  no  notice 
of  him,  and  he  did  not  feel  that  he  could  have  any  griev- 
ance if  he  withdrew  from  so  unpromising  a  situation. 
He  was  glad  that  he  had  told  none  of  what  seemed  last 
night  such  a  brilliant  opening.  Now  he  felt  that  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  become  an  actor.  .  .  .  And  then  he 
changed  his  mind;  for  a  soft  voice  said  in  his  ear:  "I  hope 
I  didn't  hurt  you  when  I  sat  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  allow  her  to  finish  her  sentence,  so  eager 
was  he  to  assure  her  of  his  invulnerability :  "On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  delightful,"  said  he. 

"I  hope,"  went  on  Miss  Blake,  a  trifle  prudishly;  "I  do 
hope  you  didn't  think  I  sat  on  your  knee  purposely." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Adam;  "Why  should  you?  .  .  . 
I  mean,  why  should  I  think  you  would  sit  on  my  knee  on 
purpose  ?" 

"I  think  Mrs.  Onsin  thought  she  could  make  you  think 
so,"  whispered  Miss  Blake. 

"She  may  think  what  she  likes,"  Adam  stoutly  rejoined, 
"but  she  can't  make  me  think  what  I  wouldn't  like  to 
think.  .  .  ."  He  hesitated  and  added:  "Not  that  perhaps 
I  wouldn't  like  to  think  it  in  some  ways." 

Unless  it  could  be  regarded  as  an  answer  that  she  suf- 
fered her  eyes  to  sparkle,  Miss  Blake  may  be  said  to  have 
ignored  this  speech.  She  asked  Adam  whether  he  had  been 
long  on  the  stage.  Simultaneously  Adam  put  the  same 


MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS  47 

question  to  her,  and  both  laughed  confusedly,  and  neither 
made  any  effort  to  reply.  Instead,  they  exclaimed  to- 
gether: he  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  and  she  "How  ridiculous 
of  me!"  Then  Adam,  just  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 
thing to  make  him  important  in  her  eyes,  demanded: 
"What  is  the  name  of  this  thing  they're  rehearsing?  .  .  . 
I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it." 

Miss  Blake  made  a  warning  gesture:  "Didn't  you 
know?  .  .  .  'What  Rot!'  .  .  .  What  else  could  it  be?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Adam,  "I  might  have  guessed.  .  .  . 
And  what  part  do  you  play  in  it?" 

"What  part  do  I  play?"  she  repeated,  "Why,  I  play  Ned 
Burke." 

"Oh!"  Adam  blurted  unthinkingly:  "I  thought  I  was  to 
play  Ned  Burke." 

Miss  Blake  stiffened  at  once.  "I  think  not,"  she  said 
almost  menacingly. 

Adam  perceived  that  he  had  blundered,  and  hastened  to 
clear  things  up.  "My  mistake,"  he  urged,  "I  understood 
that  I  was  wanted  for  something,  and  I  heard  that  part 
mentioned." 

"Who  mentioned  it?"  Miss  Blake  demanded,  as  though 
her  copyright  had  been  infringed :  on  hearing  the  name  of 
Miss  Durward,  she  tossed  her  rather  pretty  and  very  in- 
solent nose,  saying:  "What  does  Miss  Durward  know 
about  it  ?  I  like  her  .  .  ." 

"So  do  I,"  Adam  broke  in,  "I  like  her  very  much  in- 
deed." 

"I  wish  you'd  listen  to  what  I  say,"  Miss  Blake  retorted. 
"I  was  not  telling  you  that  I  liked  her.  ...  I  was  saying  I 
liked  her  cheek." 

Adam,  anxious  to  please  every  one,  was  trying  to  find 
words  of  apology  for  Miss  Durward  but  failed  to  discover 
any  formula  to  apply  to  an  imaginary  wrong.  She  went 
on:  "No,  I'm  sure  there  could  be  no  question  of  your 


48  IN  LONDON 

playing  Ned  Burke.  You  see,  it's  really  a  very  important 
part  ...  at  least  it's  going  to  be  when  Mr.  Onsin  has 
written  it  up  for  me." 

"If  he's  doing  that,"  Adam  said  modestly,  "certainly  it 
could  never  have  been  given  to  any  one  else." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Blake,  less  discordantly,  "you 
might  perhaps  understudy  it." 

Adam's  pride  was  up  in  arms  at  this:  "I  never  heard 
of  a  man  understudying  a  girl." 

"Would  you  call  yourself  a  man?"  Miss  Blake  mur- 
mured. And  seeing  him  stretch  his  frame  towards  manly 
pretensions,  winged  a  poisoned  shaft:  "Then  why  aren't 
you  at  the  Front?"  And  that  he  might  not  venture  any 
riposte  she  rose  from  her  place  beside  him  and  walked 
briskly  away. 

Adam  asked  himself  why  he  was  not  at  the  Front. 
Heretofore  he  had  regarded  the  question  as  a  foolish  joke: 
now  it  appeared  to  be  an  inquiry  calling  for  an  answer. 
.  .  .  Could  he  be  at  the  front  at  his  age?  He  was  under 
the  impression  that  he  could  not.  .  .  .  Did  he  want  to  be? 
In  the  first  murderous  onslaught  of  the  German  hordes  on 
Belgium,  yes.  He  would  gladly  have  rushed  to  the  help 
of  Belgium  against  Prussia  as  he  had  once  rushed  to  the 
help  of  his  mother  against  the  man  who  claimed  to  be  his 
father.  But  that  he  could  go  in  the  same  uniform  as 
the  men  who  had  shot  down  unarmed  fellow-creatures  in 
the  streets  of  Dublin  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  There 
flashed  up  in  his  memory  the  badges  of  Captain  de  Frece. 
.  .  .  Could  they  have  been  the  Scottish  Borderers?  No, 
they  were  the  Scots  Fusiliers.  ...  He  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and,  taking  leave  for  the  moment  of  the  Great  War, 
found  by  a  burst  of  general  talk  that  the  rehearsal  was  at 
an  end. 

His  heart  in  his  mouth,  he  approached  Me.  Onsin  to 
learn  from  him  what  he  was  wanted  to  do,  and  with  his 


MORE  ADO  ABOUT  LESS  %g 

mind  made  up  to  do  what  he  was  told  if  he  could  earn  his 
daily  bread  by  it.  But  the  actor  merely  said :  "Not  now, 
not  now!"  and  bustled  off.  And  Mrs.  Onsin  being  no- 
where visible,  and  Miss  Blake  engaged  with  one  of  the 
elderly  young  bucks,  resolutely  ignoring  him,  Adam 
crammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head  and  strode  from  the 
theater  with  a  prayer  that  the  next  air-raid  might  blow 
that  part  of  Regent  Street  to  the  four  winds. 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN 

Our  of  the  Grand  Theater  stage-door  Adam  swept,  at  war 
with  the  world  that  was  all  a  stage.  Not  for  years,  he  told 
himself,  had  he  been  so  humiliated.  And  indeed  he  had 
never  been  so;  for  this  was  his  first  experience  at  the 
theater.  At  the  Muses  Qub  and  such  resorts  he  had 
heard  stories  of  the  unbusinesslike  character  of  this  or  that 
actor-manager,  but  when  abstractly  considered  and  their 
victims  mere  names,  these  were  the  not  unpleasant  whimsi- 
calities of  genius.  .  .  .  What  man  has  ever  ventured  to 
express  sympathy  with  Dick  Sheridan's  creditors?  It 
would  be  a  murder  done  on  mirth  to  say  that  their  dis- 
appointments and  chagrins  were  deeper  than  the  frenzies 
of  harlequinade.  .  .  .  But  now  that  the  young  Adam  was 
himself  the  fobbed-off  party,  let  the  earth  tremble  at  his 
rage! 

Adam  was  furious  all  the  way  up  Regent  Street :  furious 
and  a  little  afraid;  for  if  this  were  the  way  things  were 
done  on  the  stage  how  was  he  to  make  a  living  on  it?  ... 
And  if  not  on  the  stage,  how  was  he  to  make  a  living, 
blithely  as  he  had  written  about  it  to  Mr.  Macarthy?  Was 
he  prepared  to  sell  papers  on  the  streets  of  London  as  he 
had  done  in  Dublin  when  all  but  too  young  to  cry  his 
wares?  He  did  not  see  himself  as  a  London  newsboy  nor 
how  the  profits  from  that  calling  could  defray  the  cost 
that  now  seemed  essential  to  his  life.  ...  A  fresh  chill 
fell  at  the  realization  that  he  had  not  even  bargained  with 
his  hostess  as  to  what  the  expense  of  his  living  should  be. 
He  told  himself  that  it  could  not  be  less  than  thirty  shil- 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN          51 

lings  or  two  pounds  a  week:  it  was  perhaps  fortunate  that 
he  did  not  suspect  Miss  Durward  of  making  a  minimum 
charge  of  Four  Guineas,  not  including  the  services  of  Tom- 
asso  or  much  else. 

Pausing  at  Piccadilly  Circus  he  found  his  interest  in  his 
own  life  merging  in  his  interest  in  the  life  of  London  .  .  . 
the  word  that  ever  had  been  one  to  conjure  with,  even  as 
Babylon  and  Nazareth  and  Rome  .  .  .  names  that  held 
their  meaning  in  their  sound,  unlike  Jerusalem  and  Athens 
and  even  perhaps  Nineveh,  Venice,  and  Paris,  the  signifi- 
cance of  which  had  to  be  explained,  however  easy  to  bear 
in  mind.  "London"  was  the  roar  of  the  world's  hub  as  it 
turned  on  its  axle.  And  Piccadilly  Circus,  with  its  off- 
streets  radiating  like  spokes,  seemed  the  center  of  the 
wheel  of  life.  To  be  alive  on  a  spring  day  in  this  heart 
of  London  that  was  the  heart  of  the  world!  The  world, 
men  said,  was  bleeding  to  death  from  wounds  that  gaped 
across  three  continents  and  dyed  two  oceans  red,  yet  Adam 
could  not  conceive  a  heart  being  stronger  than  that  throb- 
bing and  singing  with  energy  as  he  lounged  in  Piccadilly 
outside  a  railway-office,  looking  north. 

And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  What  is  the  use  of  a  world 
in  which  one  has  no  place?  Putting  to  himself  this  ques- 
tion, Adam  passed  on  moodily  into  the  Quadrant,  and  so  up 
Regent  Street  to  Oxford  Circus,  where,  seeing  a  'bus  that 
he  recognized  as  passing  Paddington  Station,  he  took  it 
to  that  corner  of  London  Street  with  which  he  already  felt 
himself  familiar,  and  so  home  to  Miss  Durward's.  She 
was  out,  and  there  was  no  suggestion  from  Tomasso  of 
bringing  luncheon  ...  it  was  now  nearly  three  and 
Adam's  young  tummy  yelping  for  food  .  .  .  but  he  did 
bring  what  was  almost  more  welcome,  a  telegram  from 
Mr.  Macarthy :  "Hope  to  arrive  Euston  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

Overjoyed,  Adam  swung  downstairs  from  his  bedroom 


52  IN  LONDON 

to  Miss  Durward's  den,  where  he  had  remembered  the 
sight  of  an  A.B.C.  hanging  near  the  telephone.  He  was 
determined  to  meet  his  guardian,  until  he  found  the  train 
was  due  at  six,  which  checked  his  ardor,  particularly  when 
he  grasped  that  Euston  was  a  long  way  to  go  from  Pad- 
dington.  On  the  map  they  looked  almost  side  by  side.  He 
had  visualized  King's  Cross,  St.  Pancras,  Euston,  Baker 
Street,  Marylebone,  and  Paddington  all  within  a  biscuit 
throw  of  one  another. 

He  was  still  studying  the  problem  when  Miss  Durward 
came  in,  bursting  with  curiosity  as  to  his  morning's  ex- 
perience: "Have  you  given  Belle  that  kiss  yet?"  was  her 
first  question. 

Not  knowing  how  to  answer  it  in  what  he  would  call  a 
chivalrous  manner,  Adam  laughed  it  off,  murmuring:  "As 
if  she'd  let  me !" 

Miss  Durward  plumped  herself  in  the  chair  by  her  writ- 
ing-desk: "Look  here,"  she  said,  "I  tell  you  one  thing, 
young  man,  if  you're  going  on  the  stage  you'd  better  put 
this  squeamishness  in  your  pocket.  Of  course  you'll  never 
do  anything  really  immoral  so  long  as  you  can  help  it,  no 
lady  or  gentleman  ever  would  think  of  such  a  thing,  but  if 
you're  too  modest  to  go  for  what  you  want,  no  one  is  going 
to  give  it  to  you.  .  .  ."  As  Adam  palely  held  his  tongue, 
she  went  on :  "I  can  see  already  that  Ossie  has  turned  you 
down,  and  it's  easy  to  see  why." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  see  why!"  Adam  retorted,  not  im- 
pertinently, but  with  some  little  spirit,  feeling  his  resent- 
ment against  the  actor  suddenly  flare  up.  "I  did  every- 
thing that  I  was  told." 

"You  didn't  do  as  I  told  you,"  she  reminded  him.  "You 
didn't  kiss  his  wife,  and  so  she  hasn't  bothered  her  head 
to  make  him  take  you  on." 

Adam  drew  himself  up  to  his  manliest,  if  inconsiderable 
height:  "What  you  say  is  not  absolutely  correct,"  he  pro- 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN         53 

tested.  "But  I'm  afraid  this  is  a  matter  I  cannot  discuss 
with  any  one." 

Miss  Durward  bubbled  with  mirth:  "All  right,  Mr.  Jo- 
seph, I'll  ask  Belle  if  she  remembers  what  happened.  .  .  . 
The  point  is  that  you've  lost  your  chance  of  a  good  shop." 

"How  do  you  mean  shop?"  he  asked,  interested  in  the 
new  term.  And  she  explained  to  him  that  "shop"  was 
professional  slang  for  a  theatrical  engagement.  He  tried 
to  draw  her  off  on  the  side  track  of  her  knowledge  of  the 
stage,  but  she  was  bent  on  increasing  that  knowledge  at 
his  expense.  So  in  the  end  she  had  a  working  acquaint- 
ance with  the  bald  facts  of  the  case,  excluding  the  details 
of  his  interludes  with  Mrs.  Onsin  and  Miss  Blake. 

Her  judgment  on  the  evidence  was  quite  other  than  he 
had  anticipated.  "There's  nothing  really  gone  wrong," 
she  declared,  "except  that  every  one  will  say  you've  no 
gumption  to  be  put  off  like  that.  And  good-looking  young 
men  so  hard  to  find,  too.  I'm  wondering  where  Ossie's 
going  to  find  half  the  lads  he'll  want  for  What  Rot!  .  .  . 
Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  had  to  get  girls  to  play  some 
of  the  parts.  Girls  are  more  like  boys  than  boys  them- 
selves since  the  last  year." 

Adam  was  glad  to  find  some  point  on  which  they  could 
agree:  "He  has  got  a  girl  to  play  Ned  Burke,"  he  broke 
in. 

"Has  he!"  Miss  Durward  ejaculated.  "Then  I  think  I 
know  some  one  who  will  have  something  to  say  to  that. 
.  .  .  Spoiling  a  beautiful  little  part.  .  .  .  Who  on  earth  is 
he  giving  it  to?" 

For  the  first  time  Adam  mentioned  Miss  Blake. 
"What!"  Miss  Durward  protested.  "Woodbine  Blake, 
who  plays  that  trollop  Margaret  in  Much  Ado  .  .  .?  I 
thought  there  was  something  up  last  night!  .  .  ."  She 
turned  impulsively  to  the  telephone:  "I'll  just  ring  Belle 
up  and  tell  her  my  mind  about  it.  ...  You  run  away  and 


54  IN  LONDON 

play,  little  Joseph,  or  you  may  hear  something  that  will 
send  you  back  to  Holy  Ireland." 

Adam  accordingly  retired  to  the  scandalous  company  in 
his  bedroom,  but  sat  apart  from  them,  looking  out  of  his 
window  in  the  direction  of  Hyde  Park  until  Miss  Dur- 
ward  herself  ascended  to  fetch  him  downstairs. 

"I've  talked  it  over  with  Mrs.  Onsin,"  she  declared  less 
flippantly  than  usual,  "and  she  says  she  can't  understand 
why  you  didn't  see  Mr.  Onsin  and  then  come  on  with  him 
to  lunch." 

"This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  either  of  them  asking  me 
to  lunch,"  Adam  assured  her  without  making  any  impres- 
sion. 

"I'm  only  telling  you  what  Belle  said,"  replied  Miss 
Durward.  "I'm  not  necessarily  supposing  it's  true.  .  .  . 
The  point  is  that  she  doesn't  mean  to  let  Ossie  get  out  of 
giving  you  that  engagement." 

"What  engagement?"  Adam  persisted,  feeling  a  trifle 
weary  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin. 

"Don't  be  sulky,"  Miss  Durward  returned  smilingly, 
"but  just  thank  your  stars  that  you're  young  and  pretty 
at  a  moment  when  being  young  and  pretty  counts  in  a  man. 
It  doesn't  always,  but  it's  in  demand  just  now  because  of 
all  those  poor  kids  being  killed.  What'll  happen  after  the 
war  I  don't  know.  But  I  suppose  the  old  world  will  keep 
on  rolling  somehow.  Ossie's  doing  his  bit,  I  know.  But 
he's  not  everybody's  money,  after  all." 

Adam  was  thinking  too  much  about  himself  to  follow 
closely  Miss  Durward's  appreciation  of  the  great  actor's 
talents.  He  mastered  himself  to  say  with  more  respect  than 
he  felt :  "Please  tell  me  what  you  think  I  ought  to  do." 

Miss  Durward  patted  him  on  the  head :  "That's  a  good 
little  Joseph.  I've  thought  it  all  out  for  you.  ...  Sit 
down  and  I'll  tell  you.  ...  Go  down  to  the  theater  in 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN         55 

good  time  to-night  so  that  you  can  buy  yourself  a  decent 
seat  in  the  pit.  Then  sit  through  until  the  end  of  her 
scene  in  the  church  with  Benedick.  After  that  she  has  a 
long  wait,  so  dash  round  to  the  stage-door  and  insist  on 
seeing  her.  Take  no  refusal." 

"But,"  Adam  objected,  "if  the  old  ruffian  at  the  door 
won't  let  me  in?" 

"Don't  ask  him  to  let  you  in,"  Miss  Durward  answered. 
"Just  buzz  past  him  as  if  you  were  an  ordinary  member 
of  the  company,  push  through  the  swing  doors,  and  on 
your  right  you'll  see  the  door  of  the  lift.  Jump  into  that 
and  press  the  button  for  the  second  floor.  Get  out  there 
and  you'll  find  yourself  in  the  passage  I  brought  you 
through  last  night,  and  any  one  will  show  you  Belle's 
dressing-room  if  you  can't  smell  it  out  for  yourself  from 
that  strong  scent  she  uses."  She  smiled  at  him  encourag- 
ingly: "Simple  enough,  isn't  it?" 

Adam  said  he  supposed  it  was  and  wished  himself  back 
in  Dublin. 

For  the  next  hour  or  two  he  was  preached  at  and  ex- 
horted and  instructed  and  cajoled,  all  more  or  less  for  his 
good,  by  his  hostess,  who  gave  him  at  six  a  chop  and 
against  his  will  a  glass  of  claret,  and  at  seven  pushed  him 
off  on  his  journey  to  fame.  Ere  half-past  he  was  in  the 
queue  outside  the  Grand  pit  door,  and  twenty-five  minutes 
to  eight  found  him  occupying  a  tolerably  good  seat  in  the 
front  row. 

Partly  through  the  natural  sway  of  youth's  pendulum, 
partly  for  sound  esthetic  reasons,  his  delight  in  the  art  of 
the  stage  wakened  with  greater  strength  than  before  at  the 
rise  of  the  curtain.  For  one  thing,  he  saw  the  action  of 
the  play  in  better  perspective  from  the  pit  than  from  the 
Royal  Box  (which  in  the  traditional  taste  of  royalty  com- 
manded more  of  the  coulisse  than  of  the  stage).  And  once 


56  IN  LONDON 

again  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin  had  become  gracious  and  ro- 
mantic figures  instead  of  the  monstrous  dolls  they  had 
looked  like  in  their  retiring  room  upstairs.  The  cut  and 
thrust  leading  to  the  promise  to  kill  Claudio  roused  him  to 
enthusiasm,  he  knew  not  why,  and  he  danced  off  to  the 
stage-door  just  in  the  prime  to  make  himself  agreeable  to 
the  fair  comedienne.  He  actually  brushed  past  the  stage- 
door  keeper,  and  although  he  had  never  been  in  an  auto- 
matic lift  before,  managed  his  buttons  quite  correctly  and 
landed  himself  in  on  Miss  Bellingham  while  she  was  still 
on  fire  from  the  emotion  of  her  great  scene.  Readers  who 
know  the  theater  can  imagine  what  followed  Adam's  en- 
trance in  the  dressing-room,  and  for  the  few  nowadays 
who  do  not,  bald  statements  of  fact  will  mean  nothing. 
Sufficient  to  say  that  both  Mrs.  Onsin  and  her  hustling 
husband  were  sufficiently  apologetic  for  the  indifference  of 
their  morning  reception  of  him  to  ease  his  vanity,  and, 
while  Cladio  was  repeating  his  poetical  prayers  at  the  pro- 
file tomb  of  unburied  Hero,  Benedick  and  Beatrice  were 
discussing  with  Adam  the  possibility  of  playing  some  part 
in  What  Rot! 

At  intervals  the  manager  would  say:  "He  could  play 
Ned  Burke  if  I  wrote  it  down,  he  could  play  Ned  Burke 
if  I  wrote  it  down,  but  not  if  we  wrote  it  up."  And  the 
constant  repetition  of  the  measured  phrase  buzzed  in 
Adam's  ears  like  a  hurdy-gurdy  tune,  equally  with  Mrs. 
Onsin's  chant:  "He  wants  to  give  it  to  Woodbine  Blake, 
he  wants  to  give  it  to  Woodbine  Blake,  but  I  say  she 
won't  do."  So  it  continued  for  a  long  time  until  Mrs. 
Onsin  suddenly  said:  "I  wish  Stephen  Macarthy  were 
here."  The  word  seemed  to  annoy  Mr.  Onsin,  who  asked 
what  that  had  to  do  with  it. 

But  on  Adam  mentioning  that  he  expected  Mr.  Macar- 
thy in  the  morning,  Mr.  Onsin  may  have  changed  his  mind ; 
for,  seizing  Adam  warmly  by  the  hand,  he  bade  him  good- 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN         57 

by  with  the  injunction  on  no  account  to  be  late  for  re- 
hearsal in  the  morning,  as  he  would  certainly  be  delighted 
to  hear  him  read  the  part  of  Ned  Blake,  or  indeed  any 
other,  though  no  doubt  he  was  still  a  little  young  and  in- 
experienced, despite  his  success  at  the  Abbey  .  .  .  and  so 
on. 

Adam  went  home  too  bewildered  to  be  purely  gratified. 
But  Miss  Durward  felicitated  him  on  his  rapid  recovery 
after  the  morning's  defeat.  So,  very  tired,  he  went  to  bed, 
and  at  once  to  sleep. 

Adam  awoke  with  a  start,  his  pulses  still  drumming  the 
song : — 

"He  might  play  Ned  Burke  if  I  wrote  it  down  .  .  . 
(He  wants  to  give  it  to  Woodbine  Blake) 
He  might  play  Ned  Burke  if  I  wrote  it  down  .  .  . 
(He  wants  to  give  it  to  Woodbine  Blake) 
But  not  if  I  write  it  up  ... 
(And  I  say  she  won't  do)." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  not  the  words  of  this  song 
quite  correctly;  so,  wide  awake,  he  repeated  them  and  told 
himself  that  Mr.  Onsin  said :  "If  I  write  it  down,"  but  the 
antithetical  phrase  was,  "If  we  write  it  up."  Whom  did 
"We"  cover?  Mrs.  Onsin  or  just  the  stage-manager  .  .  . 
or  some  luckless  outcast  from  Grub  Street  whom  the  great 
man  cellared  on  the  premises?  Adam  yawned  at  the 
thought  of  this  poor  ghost  working  so  in  the  earth,  and 
read  on  the  lucent  dial  of  his  wrist-watch  that  it  was  four 
o'clock.  He  had  forgotten  to  tell  Miss  Durward  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  was  due  at  Euston  at  six.  He  sprang  out  of 
bed,  switched  on  the  electric  light,  made  a  hasty  ablution 
at  the  wash-stand  and  dressed.  Then  he  scribbled  a  few 
explanatory  words  for  Miss  Durward  and  left  it  on  the 
desk  of  her  sanctum  on  his  way  to  the  hall.  At  half-past 


58  IN  LONDON 

four  he  was  passing  St.  Mary's  Hospital  on  his  way  east. 
Day  was  breaking  on  a  Praed  Street  of  desolate  misery, 
suddenly  broken  into  by  the  liveliness  of  murder  as  a  mili- 
tary ambulance  reeled  round  the  corner  of  Edgware  Road. 

He  passed  on  to  the  untraveled  land  of  Marylebone,  his 
nose  full  of  the  scent  of  fish  too  lately  fried  whiffing 
through  Chapel  Street.  On  past  the  Great  Central  Rail- 
way Station  and  Baker  Street,  to  that  world-famous  home 
of  Madame  Tussaud's  monstrosities,  and  Marylebone 
Church,  where  (as  he  had  read  in  a  book  about  London) 
Hogarth's  immortal  rake  had  been  married;  and  so  at  last 
across  the  top  of  Tottenham  Court  Road,  through  the 
classic  portico  of  the  London  and  North-Western  Railway 
terminus.  He  knew  it  well  from  pictures,  and  had  always 
taken  for  granted  that  he  should  first  see  London  from  that 
point  of  view.  But  in  real  life  what  one  takes  for  granted 
rarely  happens. 

He  had  a  good  half -hour  in  hand,  and  as  he  wandered 
about  the  strange  old-fashioned  station,  almost  fancied  him- 
self back  in  the  Victorian  period,  the  very  age  of  Dickens. 
The  Great  Western  Railway  had  given  him  the  impression, 
with  its  enormous  but  finely  lined  engines,  of  being  a  solid 
achievement  of  modernity:  but  Euston's  hugeness  belonged 
to  the  classicism  of  the  last  century.  The  very  locomo- 
tives, he  felt  instinctively,  were  not  really  so  big  and  pow- 
erful as  they  looked:  but  resembled  that  out  of  date  and 
exploded  beast,  the  British  bulldog,  which  might  perhaps 
hold  on  to  you  from  sheer  inability  to  let  go,  but  had  never 
been  known  to  serve  any  useful  purpose.  Adam  wronged 
the  London  and  North-Western  Experiments  and  Precurs- 
ors and  the  rest  of  them,  but  that  was  how  they  struck 
him  at  first  sight  as  he  made  his  way  from  platform  to 
platform,  killing  time  in  the  growing,  slanting  sunlight  on 
that  First  of  April  morning.  And  appropriately  enough 
for  that  day,  he  all  but  missed  the  train  in  the  end.  Yet 


MR.  MACARTHY  COMES  TO  TOWN         59 

he  found  Mr.  Macarthy  at  the  door  of  a  taxi,  and  was 
hailed  by  him  with  the  words:     "My  beloved  old  man,  is 
that  you?" 
Adequate  reward  for  early  rising. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 
WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON 

ADAM  trembled  with  joy  as  he  embraced  his  guardian  and 
heard  him  repeat:  "My  beloved  boy,  how  good  it  is  to 
find  you,  not  only  alive  and  well,  but  waiting  here  to  meet 
me!"  He  pressed  him  into  the  taxi  and  gave  the  driver 
an  address  in  Jermyn  Street.  Then  with  a  groan  from  the 
low  gear  and  a  toot  they  drew  away  from  the  train-side 
and,  with  a  rasp  of  the  clutch,  gathered  speed  out  of  the 
station  and  spun  across  the  Euston  Road  down  Gower 
Street.  Adam  was  conscious  of  an  almost  holy  joy  ("pass- 
ing the  love  of  women"  was  the  phrase  that  suddenly  had 
meaning  for  him)  as  he  nestled  to  his  guardian's  side  and 
felt  his  arm  pressed  around  him.  "I  suppose  at  my  age  it's 
absurd  to  be  sentimental  .  .  ."  he  blurted:  "But  may  I 
call  you  'Daddie'?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  patted  his  shoulder  soothingly:  "Well, 
well,  why  not?  ...  Of  course  I  always  think  of  you  as 
my  son  .  .  .  though  I'm  afraid  I  can't  pretend  to  be  your 
father  really." 

Adam  winced :  "I  know  that  just  a  bit  too  well,"  he  an- 
swered :  "It  was  thinking  who  my  real  father  was  and  my 
real  mother  that  sent  me  to  drown  myself."  He  foundered 
into  tears,  which  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared  not  to  notice. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "there's  no  doubt 
that  Providence  does  sometimes  seem  to  find  an  odd  pleas- 
ure in  serving  out  new  babies  to  the  wrong  sort  of  parents. 
But  you  must  admit  that  He  made  a  handsome  effort  to 
correct  the  mistake  when  He  sent  you  Father  Innocent.  I 
was  perhaps  luckier  in  my  father  and  mother  than  you,  but 

60 


WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON         61 

I  wasn't  so  lucky  in  my  spiritual  advisers,  and  so  I  wasn't 
half  so  good  a  boy  as  you've  been." 

Adam  surprisedly  dried  his  eyes  and  asked  whether  he 
had  really  been  a  good  boy  or  if  his  guardian  was  only 
saying  that  to  cheer  him  up.  "In  my  opinion,"  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy  assured  him,  "you  really  have  been,  all  difficulties 
allowed  for,  quite  a  good  boy.  I  don't  say  that  you  might 
not  have  been  a  better  boy,  more  industrious,  less  given  to 
wool-gathering,  perhaps  even  sweeter-tempered.  But  I 
frankly  confess  that  you  are  a  better  boy  than  I  ...  and 
I  was  not  the  worst  lad  in  Dublin  in  my  young  days." 

Adam  shook  his  head:  "I  can't  think  of  you  doing  any- 
thing wrong  at  all!"  he  protested,  whereat  Mr.  Macarthy 
guffawed:  "I've  never  been  guilty  of  murder  or  rape,"  he 
admitted.  "Not  being  a  military  man,  crime  does  not  at- 
tract me  nor  the  opportunity  for  it  come  my  way  .  .  ." 

"What  exactly  is  rape?"  Adam  broke  in. 

"I  thought  you  knew  that,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "It 
means  taking  by  sheer  brute  force  from  a  woman  what  is 
devoid  of  value  unless  spontaneously  offered." 

"I  thought  it  was  something  of  the  kind,"  Adam  mur- 
mured. 

Mr.  Macarthy  continued:  "It  is  not  so  much  a  criminal 
as  a  lunatic  act,  like  Father  Tudor's  imbecile  brutality  to 
you  at  Belvedere.  There  was  a  time  when  it  was  natural, 
but  the  progress  of  civilization,  that  almost  imperceptible 
movement,  has  made  it  unnatural  ...  at  all  events  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  a  day's  work  in  peace  time.  Now,  of 
course,  that  sort  of  thing  is  being  done  by  the  heroes  of 
the  contending  nations  all  over  the  globe.  Kill  your  enemy 
and  rape  his  womenkind.  Back  to  the  Golden  Age!"  His 
eye  caught  a  placard  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  "Your  King 
and  Country  want  you.  .  .  .  Do  it  now !" 

Adam  protested:  "But  our  soldiers  wouldn't  do  a  thing 
like  that?" 


62  IN  LONDON 

"A  thing  like  what?"  his  guardian  asked. 

Adam  expressed  his  conviction  that  Irish  soldiers  would 
never  be  guilty  of  such  infamy ;  but  Mr.  Macarthy  regret- 
fully advised  him  that  it  was  on  record  that  their  country- 
men had  committed  rape  in  the  service  of  England,  and  of 
France,  and  of  Spain,  and  of  several  other  countries,  not 
excluding  the  sacred  banner  of  His  Holiness  the  Pope. 
Whether  they  should  ever  do  it  in  the  cause  of  their  native 
land  remained  to  be  seen.  "The  Irishman  claims  to  be 
considered  as  a  good  soldier,"  Mr.  Macarthy  explained, 
"and  the  good  soldier  is  the  man  who  cultivates  the  mili- 
tary virtues  of  cunning,  endurance,  and  brutality.  Chas- 
tity, except  in  so  far  as  it  benefits  his  physical  fitness,  was 
never  considered  a  military  virtue,  unless  among  the 
Zulus." 

"Then  is  all  war  wrong?"  Adam  asked:  "Even  in  self- 
defense?" 

As  they  semi-circled  past  the  Shaftesbury  memorial  Mr. 
Macarthy  answered  thus :  "If  a  burglar  broke  into  a  man's 
house  and  shot  his  wife  or  child,  I  would  not  blame  that 
man  for  shooting  the  burglar  then  and  there.  But  if  he 
went  instead  to  the  burglar's  house  and  shot  the  burglar's 
wife  or  child,  I  should  account  him  no  better  than  the 
burglar." 

"Oh,  how  could  you !"  Adam  cried :  "Surely  the  burglar 
began  it?" 

"Surely,"  Mr.  Macarthy  answered :  "The  burglar  acted 
without  malice?  Do  you  suppose  he  entered  the  house  for 
the  pleasure  of  killing  the  people  in  it?  If  he  did  that  he 
is  a  criminal  lunatic  and  perhaps  his  wife  and  child  are 
better  dead.  But  what  about  the  man  who  kills  them 
merely  to  gratify  his  own  lust  for  blood?  .  .  .  And  we  all 
have  that  deep  down  in  our  natures  with  every  other  po- 
tential vice.  It  is  only  reason  and  avoidance  of  tempta- 
tion keeps  any  but  the  merely  cowardly  straight.  And  it 


WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON         63 

seems  to  me  that  the  lust  of  cruelty  to  destroy  is  even 
more  abominable  (if  anything  can  be)  than  the  lust  of 
cruelty  to  create." 

In  silence  they  whirred  on  into  the  narrows  of  Jermyn 
Street  and  stopped  at  a  house  facing  south.  "After  such  a 
serious  conversation  so  early  in  the  morning,"  said  Mr. 
Macarthy,  "we  shall  both  want  breakfast."  Adam  had 
just  time  to  take  in  that  the  house  on  the  steps  of  which 
they  stood  was  old-fashioned,  with  an  old-fashioned  door 
and  knocker,  when  they  were  admitted  by  an  elderly  lady 
recalling  the  first  member  of  the  aristocracy  with  whom  he 
had  ever  been  privileged  to  speak.  This  gentlewoman, 
whom  Mr.  Macarthy  addressed  as  Mrs.  Apjohn,  was  al- 
most just  such  a  piece  of  ronion  respectability  as  Lady 
Bland,  who  ten  years  or  so  ago  had  offered  him  a  penny 
for  Christ's  sake  to  take  a  bath.  It  was  queer  to  have  the 
sensation  of  Lady  Bland  scraping  and  kowtowing,  as  the 
Chinese  say,  in  front  of  you,  and  hoping  that  you  had  an 
agreeable  passage,  and  what  would  you  have  to  eat,  the 
same  as  usual,  thank  you,  sir,  thank  you  very  much  indeed. 

"Mrs.  Apjohn,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "has  the  Castilian 
manner  of  the  first-class  English  servant,  which  she  was 
before  I  was  born,  but  don't  be  misled  by  it.  ...  If  I 
woke  her  out  of  her  after-dinner  nap  by  ringing  the  bell 
she  would  give  me  notice  at  once." 

"But  can  she  afford  to  do  that  sort  of  thing?"  Adam 
gasped. 

"If  she  couldn't  she  wouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "and 
since  she  can,  why  shouldn't  she?" 

Adam  thought  this  conduct  of  Mrs.  Apjohn  rather  profli- 
gate, but  as  she  reentered  with  a  maid  carrying  a  tray  he 
did  not  pursue  the  discussion.  He  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, the  middle  one  of  three  upon  the  second  floor,  and 
saw  a  shop  or  two,  a  restaurant,  and  the  offices  of  the 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  On  a 


64  IN  LONDON 

table  in  front  of  the  window  lay  a  popular  monthly  maga- 
zine; turning  the  leaves,  his  eye  caught  a  portrait,  already 
familiar  to  him,  of  John  Galsworthy.  From  that  he  glanced 
to  his  guardian,  busy  exchanging  compliments  with  Mrs. 
Apjohn  and  fencing  with  her  efforts  to  ask  him  what  he 
thought  of  the  war.  How  like  Galsworthy  his  guardian 
was  as  he  sat  there  patiently  smiling  at  her  and  seeming 
to  say  a  great  deal  without  speaking.  He  had  not  Gals- 
worthy's beauty  of  feature,  but  an  equal  urbanity  of  ex- 
pression and  a  more  luminous  eye.  .  .  .  The  difference  be- 
tween Celt  and  Saxon?  .  .  .  But  then  Galsworthy  was  a 
man  of  Devon  and  the  men  of  Devon  were  Celts.  .  .  . 
Ethnology  was  the  devil  of  a  question.  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy 
said  there  was  a  lot  of  nonsense  in  it.  Life  was  too  fluid 
to  be  pigeon-holed.  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy  was  also  a  little 
like  Maeterlinck  .  .  .  about  the  nose?  .  .  .  Oh,  hang  it, 
everybody  was  a  little  bit  like  everybody  else,  even  Jose- 
phine O'Meagher  like  poor  little  Caroline  Brady.  .  .  . 
And  he  was  hungry  for  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Apjohn's  house  was  less  elegantly  furnished  (to 
Adam's  eye)  than  Miss  Durward's,  but  she  provided  even 
better  food.  And  Adam  forgot  ethnology  and  John  Gals- 
worthy and  love  in  the  more  pressing  interest  of  deviled 
kidneys. 

Mr.  Macarthy,  too,  seemed  to  enjoy  his  breakfast  and 
there  was  a  long  silence  before  he  said :  "Before  you  drown 
yourself  next  time,  Adam,  you  might  mention  to  me,  or 
some  one  else  that  has  time  to  run  and  tell  me,  what's  in 
your  mind." 

"I'll  never  drown  myself  any  more,"  Adam  declared 
with  a  firmness  that  was  only  a  trifle  weakened  by  his 
adding:  "I  don't  think." 

"I  shouldn't,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said.  "There's  really  noth- 
ing in  it  except  discomfort  for  yourself  and  anxiety  for 
your  friends.  .  .  .  But  we'll  not  go  into  that  any  more. 


WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON         65 

Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  since.  Have  you  made 
your  fortune  already?" 

Adam  rose  with  a  slight  air  of  importance  from  the  table 
and  stood  with  his  back  against  the  mantelpiece  (a  hand- 
some example  of  his  namesake's  work,  but  he  did  not  know 
it)  to  make  the  bigger  impression.  "No,  sir,"  he  an- 
swered: "I've  not  made  my  fortune.  .  .  .  Rome  was  not 
built  in  a  day.  .  .  ." 

Here  Mr.  Macarthy  asked  a  trifle  disconcertingly:  "Are 
you  sure  of  that  ?"  And  Adam  feebly  returned :  "It  wasn't, 
was  it?" 

"I  venture  on  no  statement,"  Mr.  Macarthy  replied.  "I 
seek  for  information." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  Adam  went  on,  when  he  had  pulled  up 
his  cerebral  socks,  "I  have  put  my  foot  on  the  first  rung 
of  the  ladder." 

"Bravo!"  his  guardian  cried,  "but  are  you  really  strong 
enough  to  carry  bricks?" 

"Bricks !"  Adam  echoed.  .  .  .  "I've  gone  on  the  stage." 

Mr.  Macarthy  whistled  very  faintly.  "Oh!  that  kind  of 
ladder !"  Then  his  face  cleared :  "Well,  after  all  you  might 
do  worse.  .  .  .  Going  out  with  Benson  or  some  one,  are 
you?" 

"No,"  answered  Adam  proudly:  "I've  joined  Oswald 
Onsin.  ...  At  least  he's  offered  me  what  I'm  told  is  a 
good  part  in  What  Rot!  .  .  .  They're  reviving  What  Rot! 
you  know." 

Mr.  Macarthy  nodded,  but  was  calmer  than  Adam 
thought  polite.  "I  didn't  know  there  was  more  than  one 
good  part  in  What  Rot!"  was  all  he  said. 

Adam  took  up  the  thread  he  appeared  about  to  drop :  "I 
forgot  that  you  knew  the  play.  .  .  .  What's  it  all  about?" 

"If  you  have  a  good  part  surely  you  ought  to  be  able  to 
tell  me  that,"  his  guardian  suggested:  "But  I  suppose 
you've  not  rehearsed  yet?" 


66  IN  LONDON 

Adam  admitted  that  he  had  not  so  far  rehearsed.  "After 
all,  I  only  got  to  Town  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"You  only  got  to  Town  the  day  before  yesterday,"  his 
guardian  gravely  acquiesced :  "I  am  sure  your  friends  in 
Dublin  will  be  glad  to  know  how  well  you  are  doing  on 
the  stage,  considering  you  have  been  so  short  a  time  in 
Town." 

Adam  stole  a  glance  at  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  then  returned 
crestfallen  to  his  chair,  murmuring:  "I'm  a  silly  ass." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head  thoughtfully:  "No,  no! 
Silly,  perhaps,  but  I  wouldn't  call  you  a  permanent  ass, 
Adam.  .  .  .  You're  just  silly  as  boys  of  your  age  with 
lively  imaginations  will  be  silly.  For  my  part  I  prefer  such 
silliness  to  the  dull  virtue  which  holds  its  peace  for  fear 
of  being  laughed  at.  If  you  deserve  to  be  scoffed  at  you 
take  your  due  in  the  right  spirit.  .  .  .  And  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  I  gather  that  you  really  have  done  something  to 
make  a  good  impression  on  Mr.  ...  or  was  it  Mrs. 
Onsin?" 

After  a  futile  pantomime  of  philosophic  doubt  Adam 
confessed  there  was  ground  for  supposing  that  it  might 
have  been  Mrs.  Onsin  who  was  the  more  impressed  by 
him.  Whereupon  he  seemed  to  hear  Mr.  Macarthy  mut- 
ter: "Good  old  Belinda!"  Aloud  he  said:  "By  the  way, 
Adam,  should  we  happen  to  meet  Mrs.  Onsin  together, 
don't  call  me  your  daddie  in  her  presence.  As  you  may 
have  noticed,  she's  a  delightful  woman,  but  long  connection 
with  the  theater  has  endued  her  with  a  theatrical  point  of 
view.  If  you  have  to  satisfy  the  Onsins  as  to  your  paren- 
tage before  they  allow  you  to  appear  at  their  theater  you 
can  tell  them  that  your  father  was  a  Castle  Official." 

Adam  looked  shyly  at  his  guardian :  "I  know  you'd  be 
the  last  one  in  the  world  to  let  me  tell  a  lie.  May  I  say 
that?" 

"Of  course  you  may.     I  know  that  for  reasons  with 


WITH  MR.  MACARTHY  IN  LONDON         67 

which  I  sympathize  you  do  not  feel  as  attached  to  your 
father  as  I  hope  you  will  make  your  own  son  to  you,  but 
I  assure  you  that  your  father  is  quite  as  efficient  a  public 
servant  and  probably  no  worse  enemy  to  public  decency 
than  some  of  the  'Holy  Luthers  of  the  preaching  North,' 
as  Synge  called  them  in  an  inspired  passage,  by  whom  we 
have  been  privileged  to  be  ruled.  .  .  .  Come,  you're  not 
going  to  cry  at  your  age  because  your  father  happens  to 
be  a  bad  hat,  or  a  hat  of  inferior  quality  to  Father  Inno- 
cent?" 

Adam  moodily  shook  his  head :  "No,  I  was  only  thinking 
of  what  you  said  about  my  having  a  son  of  my  own.  .  .  . 
I  wish  I  had.  .  .  .  I've  often  wished  I  had  even  as  much 
as  a  little  brother." 

He  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  window,  where  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy  followed  him  and  said  gently  in  his  ear :  "The  world 
is  full  of  your  little  brothers.  .  .  .  Don't  think  that  because 
my  hair  is  gray  I'm  too  old  to  be  one  of  them.  Please  tell 
me  when  you  think  I'm  wrong." 


CHAPTER  NINE 
OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.  B.  S." 

To  say  that  Adam  was  temperamentally  patriotic  would 
be  to  hazard  an  improbability.  His  putative  father,  Mac- 
fadden  the  tailor,  had  been  patriotic  in  the  same  sense  as 
he  had  been  religious,  and  that  a  very  common  one;  for 
he  would  have  been  equally  pleased  to  black  an  Irishman's 
eye  for  being  a  Protestant  as  a  Catholic's  for  being  an  Eng- 
lishman: he  would  quarrel  as  readily  over  questions  of 
faith  or  politics  as  over  the  question  of  paying  for  a  drink. 
Adam  was  conscious  of  having  in  himself  two  distinct  be- 
ings, one  of  whom  held  fiercely  that  nothing  but  Ireland 
mattered,  and  another  doubting  spirit  that  suggested  few 
things  mattered  less.  The  English  conquest  of  Ireland,  so 
far  as  there  had  been  such  a  thing,  was  a  hateful  example 
of  tyrannic  abuse  of  power;  but  the  individual  Englishman 
appeared  to  be  no  more  tyrannical  than  the  average  Irish- 
man. Father  Tudor  had  an  English  name,  but  Adam  did 
not  accuse  Britannia  of  begetting  him  as  a  flail  for  young 
Ireland.  Mr.  Macarthy  had  told  him  that  the  pedagogic 
methods  of  Belvedere  would  not  be  tolerated  in  an  English 
Elementary  School. 

It  was  a  stumbling-block  to  Adam  that  Mr.  Macarthy 
gave  him  no  clear  lead  in  politics.  Mr.  Macfadden  had 
been  a  gutter  patriot  and  Mr.  OiToole  a  stickler  for  tradi- 
tional authority:  Mr.  Macarthy's  notions  were  obviously 
remote  from  either ;  but  to  say  what  they  were  not  was  not 
equivalent  to  saying  what  they  were.  His  attitude  to  poli- 
tics was  always,  so  far  as  Adam  could  see,  negative.  He 
would  agree  with  Mr.  O'Meagher  that  the  English  govern- 

68 


OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.  B.  S."  69 

ment  of  Ireland  was  deplorable,  but  denied  the  proposition 
that  no  government  could  be  worse:  he  even  hinted,  for 
example,  that  an  administration  of  which  Mr.  O'Meagher 
and  the  Marchesa  should  be  the  leading  spirits  might  not 
satisfy  every  one.  And  when  Herr  Behre,  the  German 
socialist,  who  lived,  body  and  soul,  by  music,  reproached 
him  with  criticizing  the  extreme  nationalist  party  instead  of 
joining  wholeheartedly  in  their  plans  and  using  his  wisdom 
from  within,  Mr.  Macarthy  would  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
say  that  he  was  not  so  content  with  his  ideas  that  he  would 
let  others  die  to  give  them  life.  It  is  better,  he  would 
contend,  to  correct  the  palpable  follies  of  mankind  than  to 
upset  their  digestions  with  a  surfeit  of  ideas.  Even  within 
a  hundred  years  an  Irishman  could  not  honestly  live  under 
an  English  government,  yet  Rome  made  her  priests  preach 
obedience  to  that  government:  Ireland  had  always  been 
made  the  cat's  paw  of  the  theocrats,  as  the  theocrats  them- 
selves had  served  as  the  vilest  tools  of  reactionary  despots 
whose  only  faith  was  in  witchcraft.  One  could  admire  and 
sympathize  with  those  young  priests  who  had  suppressed 
their  antipathy  to  men  of  other  religions,  or  no  religion 
at  all,  in  order  to  make  a  common  front  in  this  holy  war 
for  Ireland's  liberty.  But  when  it  came  to  the  question  of 
the  country  being  governed  by  even  the  noblest  of  priests 
or  their  nominees,  Mr.  Macarthy  held  that  there  was  risk 
of  plain  men  who  valued  their  personal  freedom  finding 
themselves  fallen  from  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire.  It 
were  better  that  men  should  be  shot  in  batches  every  day 
than  a  live  thought  smothered  because  conventional  piety 
blushed  at  it.  Said  Mr.  Macarthy:  "If  liberty  in  Ireland 
is  not  to  mean  intellectual  liberty,  then  God  damn  Ireland." 
This  was  the  fullest  expression  of  opinion  that  Adam  ever 
heard  him  utter. 

The  very  hour  that  Adam,  still  a  boy  of  twelve,  had  met 
the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica,  unsuspicious   in  those 


70  IN  LONDON 

days  of  her  being  his  grandmother  (and  it  seemed  that  she 
did  not  suspect  it  even  now)  she  had  sworn  him  as  a  re- 
cruit for  her  phalanx  of  Infant  Druids,  so  called  because 
of  their  being  recruited  mainly  from  the  acolytes  and  choir- 
boys of  the  less  fashionable  Dublin  churches.  But  Mr. 
Macarthy  declined  to  allow  this  enlistment  to  be  regarded 
as  effective.  He  told  the  Marchesa  point  blank  that  his 
protege  was  not  for  her.  Up  to  the  time  that  he  «went  to 
school  with  the  Jesuits  at  Clongowes,  Adam  had  found  it 
something  of  a  grievance  that  he  was  not  allowed  to  share 
the  glories  of  the  Infant  Druids,  but  with  a  maturing  in- 
telligence he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  nothing 
in  it:  besides,  he  preferred  not  to  be  bound  even  by  their 
Commanding  Officer's — the  Archdruid's — somewhat  flighty 
discipline.  In  his  early  daydreams  the  possibility  of  mili- 
tary glory  had  not  been  overlooked,  any  more  than  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  martyr's  crown;  but  to  be  a  private  soldier 
seemed  as  uninviting  a  career  as  that  of  a  private  saint. 
If  Mr.  Macarthy  had  bid  him  die  for  Ireland  he  might 
have  screwed  up  his  courage  to  run  the  risk  of  it,  but 
Mr.  Macarthy  refrained  from  the  suggestion  that  Ireland 
or  any  other  cause  was  worth  dying  for:  he  seemed  very 
firm  on  the  point  that  the  only  reason  why  a  man  should 
die  would  be  the  discovery  that  his  life  was  not  worth  liv- 
ing; and  so  far,  save  in  the  sulkiness  of  an  offended  dig- 
nity, a  rapidly  passing  phase,  Adam  found  every  moment 
of  his  life  since  he  had  known  Mr.  Macarthy  and  his  circle 
well  worth  living. 

The  odd  thing  was  that  practically  every  person  every- 
where seemed  to  find  life  worth  living:  from  Mr.  O'Toole 
to  Josephine  O'Meagher,  not  one  appeared  to  doubt  that 
it  was  better  to  be  alive  than  to  be  dead :  yet  for  some  ob- 
scure reason  here  was  practically  half  the  world  willing  to 
be  dead  itself  rather  than  suffer  the  other  half  to  remain 
alive.  The  whole  thing  was  so  incomprehensible  that  it 


OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.  B.  S."  71 

nearly  drove  you  mad  when  you  tried  to  make  sense  of  it. 
In  Dublin  the  Great  War  appeared  to  be  just  blatherum- 
skite,  as  Mr.  O'Meagher  described  the  religious  vocation: 
just  one  more  immense  adventure  of  dogs  snapping  at 
shadows  to  lose  what  they  possessed.  Yet  Mr.  Macarthy 
had  seemed  at  first  to  have  been  among  those  who  were 
for  the  war  rather  than  against  it.  He  lent  it  a  qualified 
support  and  refused  to  assist  in  recruiting;  but  if  young 
men  asked  whether  they  should  go  or  not  he  bade  them  go, 
or  said  that  were  he  in  their  place  he  would  do  so.  It 
was  the  apparent  change  in  his  view  which  perturbed 
Adam  as  they  drove  down  Shaftesbury  Avenue  with  its 
recruiting  posters.  Just  as  Adam  was  asking  himself  for 
the  first  time  whether  he  ought  not  to  be  at  that  mysteri- 
ously awful  Front,  Mr.  Macarthy  seemed  to  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  no  sane  and  decent  man  could  have 
any  business  there. 

From  the  window  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  room  in  Mrs. 
Apjohn's  house  in  Jermyn  Street,  Adam  looked  across  at 
the  building  dedicated  to  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Ani- 
mals. In  front  of  that  office  stood  the  first  horse-drawn 
carriage  he  had  noticed  in  the  London  streets:  a  landau 
with  two  showy  bays  whose  outstretched  legs  told  of  most 
careful  breeding  to  an  useless  end. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Adam,  "that  any  one  would  have  the 
cheek  to  drive  up  to  the  head  office  of  the  R.S.P.C.A.  with 
bearing  reins  on  their  horses." 

"You  have  not  been  in  England  long,"  Mr.  Macarthy  re- 
turned, "or  you  would  find  more  to  wonder  at  than  that." 

"The  English,"  Adam  said,  "are  rum  people." 

"All  people  are  more  or  less  rum,"  Mr.  Macarthy  an- 
swered. "You  may  have  forgotten,  but  you  told  me  once 
that  at  Belvedere  the  other  boys  thought  you  were  mad." 

Adam  pressed  his  nose  against  the  window  in  deep  re- 
flection:  "Do  you  think  I  am  perhaps  a  bit  mad,  really?" 


72  IN  LONDON 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  with  unpleasing  readiness,  "I 
think  you  are." 

Adam's  face  fell:  "Do  you  think  I  ought  to  be  locked 
up?" 

"No,"  Mr.  Macarthy  answered,  "I  don't  think  anybody 
ought  to  be  locked  up." 

"Not  even  criminals?"  Adam  protested. 

"State  what  you  mean  by  a  criminal,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
suggested. 

And  Adam  unhesitatingly  answered:  "A  very  bad  man." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head:  "A  very  bad  man  is  not 
necessarily  a  criminal  nor  a  criminal  a  very  bad  man." 

"D'ye  tell  me  so?"  Adam  gaped.  And  Mr.  Macarthy 
nodded :  "Even  so,"  he  added.  "Try  again." 

Adam  refrained  from  pursuit  of  his  idea:  "It's  awfully 
hard  to  understand  anything  completely,"  he  pleaded. 

Said  Mr.  Macarthy:  "It  is  impossible."  And  here  Mrs. 
Apjohn's  maid,  entering  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  table, 
turned  their  conversation  from  the  philosophical  to  the 
practical.  It  was  typical  of  Adam  at  this  age  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  his  guardian  had  flown  over  from  Dublin 
purely  to  reassure  himself  as  to  his  condition  and  see  that 
all  went  well  with  him.  He  was  prepared  for  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy to  show  a  more  curious  interest  in  his  achievements 
than  he  had  so  far  displayed,  and  it  was  with  an  odd  feel- 
ing of  pathos,  as  one  disowned  by  his  father,  that  he  heard 
him  say :  "And  now  you'll  want  to  be  off  again  about  your 
own  business,  while  I  shave  and  dress." 

Adam  looked  at  him  wistfully:  "Rehearsal  isn't  till 
eleven,"  and  his  eyes  invited  Mr.  Macarthy  to  glance  at 
the  clock,  which  pointed  to  nine.  The  latter  smiled,  or 
perhaps  he  did  not  smile;  for  Mr.  Macarthy's  expression 
was  commonly  that  of  a  male  and  elderly  Mona  Lisa.  You 
might  suspect  him  of  melancholy,  or  hilarity,  according  to 
your  own  mood,  yet  Adam  could  not  remember  that  he  had 


OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.  B.  S."  73 

ever  seen  him  either  hilarious  or  depressed.  But  then 
Adam  had  never  seen  him  in  his  young  days  and  could 
not  think  of  him  as  a  young  man.  To  have  full  colored 
hair  on  his  head  and  no  wrinkles  on  his  face  would  have 
robbed  him  of  his  identity  as  Adam's  Mr.  Macarthy.  His 
mind  reverted  to  the  subject  they  had  dropped  on  the  en- 
trance of  the  maid :  "Do  you  think  you  ever  make  mistakes 
about  things?"  he  queried. 

"No,"  Mr.  Macarthy  replied,  "unfortunately,  or  perhaps 
fortunately,  I  never  think  it.  But  I  make  them  all  the 
same."  Taking  a  pocket-book  from  his  breast,  he  produced 
a  post  card  on  which  Adam  could  see  a  long  story  in  the 
neatest  possible  handwriting:  "Here  is  a  pretty  example  of 
my  special  branch  of  imbecility.  .  .  .  Foreseeing  the  cer- 
tainty that  you  would  want  once  you  reached  London,  to 
go  on  the  stage,  and  thinking  I  would  rather  you  should 
appear  in  good  plays  than  bad,  I  wrote  to  Shaw,  Gals- 
worthy, and  Masefield  about  you.  To  Shaw,  as  a  Dublin 
man,  I  entered  into  certain  particulars,  including  a  refer- 
ence to  Hollander's  as  being  only  a  few  doors  from  the 
house  agent's  where  he  was  once  employed.  For  Lord 
knows  why,  I  had  got  it  into  my  head  that  he  had  been  a 
clerk,  in  extreme  youth,  at  North's.  Possibly  I  had  mixed 
it  up  with  a  legend  current  when  I  was  a  lad  that  Lord 
Wolseley  started  life  as  a  clerk  in  Hodges  and  Figgis. 
Anyhow,  there's  Shaw's  only  answer  to  read  for  yourself." 

He  fluttered  the  card  across  the  room  into  Adam's  hands, 
and  he  read :  "I  cannot  accept  any  recommendations  from 
a  man  who  has  accused  me  of  being  clerk  to  a  house  agent. 
You  might  as  well  call  Shakespeare  a  reporter.  I  would 
have  you  to  know  that  an  Irish  land  agent  is  a  gentleman 
(not  to  say  a  super-snob),  and  a  house  agent,  of  whatever 
nationality,  is  a  vulgar  tradesman.  Adam  did  not  pass  the 
office  to  which  pilgrims  will  presently  resort  on  that  oc- 
casion. Kindly  conduct  him,  at  the  first  opportunity,  down 


74  IN  LONDON 

Molesworth  Street.  At  No.  15,  on  the  north  side,  next  the 
Masonic  Hall,  the  office  still  exists  of  Uniacke  Townshend, 
LAND  agent;  and  if  Adam  enters  and  asks:  'Is  this  a 
house  agent's?'  he  will  be  struck  dead.  .  .  . — G.  B.  S." 

Adam  fingered  the  card  with  an  air  of  reverential  dis- 
appointment: "I  don't  see  what  this  has  to  do  with  me," 
he  said.  "Does  it  mean  Mr.  Shaw  won't  do  anything  for 
me?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  Mr.  Macarthy  answered,  "it  means 
that  his  interest  is  aroused." 

Adam  read  it  again  with  vague  hopes  that  grew  vaguer 
with  each  sentence:  "It  doesn't  seem  to  promise  much," 
he  said. 

"It  promises  nothing,"  his  guardian  pointed  out.  "The 
usual  custom  in  the  theatrical  world  is  to  promise  every- 
thing and  perform  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  worth  performing. 
.  .  .  The  meaning  of  that  post  card  is  that  if  you  go  to 
Shaw  he  will  know  who  you  are  and  he  will  listen  to  you 
or  more  likely  talk  to  you  about  my  foolishness,  which  is 
precisely  the  sin  I  am  confessing  to  you  as  a  warning  for 
your  future." 

Adam  pursed  his  lips :  "I  don't  see  where  the  foolishness 
came  in.  Any  one  might  make  a  mistake  like  that." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "any  one  might  not  unless  he 
were  a  vain  ass  too  anxious  to  be  clever  to  escape  being 
silly."  He  laid  his  hand  on  Adam's  shoulder  and  said 
laughingly,  "I  really  don't  know  whether  my  stupidity  has 
done  you  any  harm.  ...  I  think  not  .  .  .  but  I've  damned 
myself  in  my  own  eyes  by  that  idiotic  mistake." 

Adam  was  stubborn :  "I  don't  see  that  a  mistake  like  that 
matters  a  bit.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  tell  me  that  Mr.  Shaw  is 
seriously  annoyed." 

Mr.  Macarthy  laughed,  "Shaw  is  pulling  my  leg."  His 
face  hardened:  "But  I  am  seriously  annoyed  with  myself, 
for  it  is  just  that  form  of  ineptitude  in  mistaking  one's 


OF  A  POST  CARD  FROM  "G.  B,  S."  75 

impressions  for  facts  which  holds  civilization  back  more 
firmly  than  the  most  resolute  Conservatism.  The  Great 
War,  as  children  call  it,  as  if  there  could  be  anything  great 
about  war,  was  not  made  by  villains  but  by  blunderers. 
Man's  worst  enemy  is  his  own  ineptitude."  He  broke  off: 
"And  now  you  must  say  good-by  until  .  .  .  later  on." 
And  so  Adam  reluctantly  took  his  departure,  wishing  it 
were  a  play  by  Shaw  in  which  he  was  to  make  his  first 
appearance,  and  not  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin's  masterpiece. 


CHAPTER  TEN 
ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

As  Adam  turned  in  to  Regent  Street  from  Mr.  Macarthy's 
lodgings  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  approached  that  in  every 
sense  imposing  pile,  the  Grand  Theater,  he  sincerely  wished 
that  it  was  the  least  approved  of  Shaw,  or  Galsworthy,  or 
Masefield's  plays  in  which  he  was  to  make  his  bow  to  the 
public  rather  than  "Mr.  Onsin's  masterpiece,  What  Rot!" 
as  the  puffs  called  it.  He  reflected  on  this  title,  so  ominous 
of  its  content.  And  he  was  not  sure  after  all  whether  he 
was  to  be  permitted  the  honor  of  appearing  in  this  work 
of  art.  .  .  .  Supposing  that  he  failed  to  please  Mr.  or 
Mrs.  Onsin  when  it  came  to  the  reading  of  whatever  part 
it  might  be  in  their  minds  to  allot  to  him,  Ned  Burke  or 
something  less  (for  his  chastened  vanity  surrendered  the 
possibility  of  its  being  anything  more),  then  his  vaunted 
career  on  the  stage  would  end  as  it  had  begun.  His  heart 
sank  ever  lower  as  he  drew  nearer  the  stage-door.  He 
wished  he  had  made  a  stouter  effort  yesterday  to  discover 
what  the  play  really  was  about  ...  if  it  might  be  said 
to  be  about  anything.  All  he  gathered  was  that  Mr.  Onsin 
was  called  Lord  Algy  Taplow  and  Miss  Belinda  Belling- 
ham  (Mrs.  Oswald  Onsin)  called  Lady  Lucina  Something, 
and  both  were  supposed  to  be  younger  than  they  looked. 

At  the  pit  entrance  beside  the  stage-door,  bill-posters 
were  busy  with  double  crown  placards.  .  .  .  He  saw  the 
world-famous  words:  "What  Rot!"  go  up  in  capitals  that 
stared  out  of  countenance  all  passersby.  Beneath,  on  an- 
other strip,  appeared  the  heads,  well-spaced,  of  a  man  and 
a  woman,  developing  at  once  into  the  familiar.  The  lady's 

76 


ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  77 

head  had  a  tall  hat  balanced  on  it,  brilliantly  black  on  her 
golden  hair,  the  honest  gentleman  was  hatless.  Another 
strip  showed  that  she  was  wearing  pyjamas,  possibly  his, 
and  he  a  nightdress,  no  less  possibly  hers,  a  third  strip  con- 
firmed one's  first  suspicion  that  she  fled  and  he  pursued 
her;  for  feet  were  flung  across  the  ingenious  composition: 
hers  in  red  sandals,  his  in  black  pumps.  Beneath  all  flared 
the  challenge:  "Who  Can  Stop  It?"  Stop  what?  Adam 
asked  himself,  and  the  placard  answered:  "What  Rot!" 
As  he  regarded  this  poster  a  little  shamefacedly,  wonder- 
ing where  he  had  seen  it  first,  he  little  dreamed  that  once 
upon  a  time  his  putative  father,  the  great  Malachy  Mac- 
fadden,  had  gazed  long  and  lovingly  upon  it,  the  night  he 
had  gone  over  to  the  majority.  The  young  gentleman  and 
young  lady  depicted  in  that  poster  were  not  wildly  fanciful 
likenesses  of  Miss  Belinda  Bellingham  and  her  husband  in 
the  days  when  they  were  newly  married  and  Adam's  sole 
glimpse  of  life  above  the  starvation  line  was  Lady  Eland's 
bathroom.  That  infancy  seemed  to  him  as  remote  now 
as  did  the  days  of  their  wooing  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Onsin.  .  .  . 

Adam's  thoughts  were  scattered  by  a  majestic  trumpet- 
ing, and  the  portentous  limousine  which  he  had  seen  once 
before  that  day  dashed  past  him  and  deposited  Mrs.  Onsin 
at  the  door  of  her  husband's  theater.  .  .  .  Adam  recalled 
his  forgotten  intention  of  asking  first  Miss  Durward  and 
afterwards  Mr.  Macarthy  how  Mrs.  Onsin  came  to  have 
this  car  placed  at  her  disposal  by  the  government.  .  .  . 
Was  it  to  enable  her  perhaps  to  visit  the  military  hospitals 
and  cheer  the  wounded  with  her  buoyancy,  eked  out  by 
art? 

It  chanced  that  his  questioning  was  resolved  by  the  acci- 
dental falling  of  Miss  Woodbine  Blake's  voice  on  his  ear. 
She  was  walking  behind  him,  unconscious  of  his  proximity 
as  she  emptied  her  mind  into  that  of  the  elderly  youth  who 


78  IN  LONDON 

had  already  roused  Adam's  jealousy.  "No,"  she  was  say- 
ing, "it's  not  a  Rolls  Royce,  it's  a  fifty  horse-power,  six- 
cylinder  Wolseley;  they're  not  common." 

"Tut,  I  should  think  not,"  said  the  elderly  youth,  "I 
don't  suppose  there's  another  member  of  the  profession  in 
London,  not  a  lady,  anyhow,  that  has  one." 

"Oh,  she  hasn't  one,"  Miss  Blake  returned,  "it's  a  War 
Office  car  lent  her  by  Lord  Bulwark." 

"Lord  Bulwark?"  the  actor  echoed,  "I  thought  he  was  in 
France  commanding  an  Army  Corps?" 

Miss  Blake  laughed.  "He  may  be  commanding  an  Army 
Corps  in  France  all  right,  but  that  wouldn't  prevent  him 
spending  most  of  his  time  in  London,  or  at  any  rate  where 
Mrs.  Onsin  is." 

The  actor  looked  at  her  with  googly  eyes.  "You  don't 
mean  to  say !"  he  ejaculated. 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  anything,"  Miss  Blake  said  sweetly, 
"I  was  only  answering  your  question." 

Something  in  this  scrap  of  talk  prickled  Adam  with  a 
delightful  despair:  he  saw  life  as  at  once  hopeless  and  de- 
liciously  comic:  he  visualized  the  portly  form  of  Lord 
Bulwark  whirled  at  immense  cost  in  aeroplanes  between 
England  and  France  that  he  might  simultaneously  fight  the 
Germans  and  flirt  with  Mrs.  Oswald  Onsin.  .  .  .  And  Mr. 
Oswald  Onsin,  what  of  him?  Was  he  really  proud  of  his 
wife's  connection  with  the  famous  if  not  notably  success- 
ful general,  or  were  his  allusions  to  the  matter  to  be  taken 
in  an  ironical  spirit?  .  .  .  What  did  it  matter  to  him  what 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin  thought  about  each  other,  the  question 
was  if  he  was  to  be  given  an  opening  on  the  stage  by  them. 
Gloomy  about  his  prospects,  Adam  entered  the  theater.  He 
half  thought  the  door-keeper  might  question  him,  but  he 
sniffed  and  said  nothing. 

Once  inside  Adam  fought  down  his  despair  and  concen- 
trated his  mind  on  all  that  concerned  What  Rot!  He 


ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  79 

pricked  his  ears  when  Mr.  Onsin  said:  "We  will  take  the 
play  from  the  beginning  and  go  right  through  as  far  as  we 
can,"  this  gave  him  the  desired  sequence  of  events  which 
would  enable  him  to  gather  the  meaning  of  the  play.  The 
first  act  was  laid  in  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Paris  where  Lady 
Lucina  Lovelace  arrives  breathless  with  her  young  and  ro- 
mantic first  cousin,  Neddie  Burke,  an  Eton  boy.  It  ap- 
pears that  she  had  been  married  that  morning  to  Lord 
Algy  Taplow  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  but  hearing 
at  the  wedding  breakfast  that  he  had  once  been  kissed  by 
the  Duchess  of  Quicksands,  she  determines  never  to  see 
him  more,  and  with  Master  Burke's  assistance,  flees  from 
London  to  Paris.  There  Lord  Algy  arrives  in  pursuit  of 
her,  and  he  had  just  persuaded  her  that  there  was  nothing 
in  the  story  of  the  Duchess  of  Quicksands,  when  enter  the 
Princesse  des  A'guesmortes,  who,  not  seeing  her,  embraces 
him,  and  Lady  Lucina  flees  again  to  spend  Act  two  in 
Cairo  where  parallel  incidents  arise  as  they  do  in  Act  three 
at  Melbourne  and  in  Act  four  at  New  York;  but  all  ends 
happily  in  Act  five  at  the  Ritz  Hotel,  London,  the  curtain 
apparently  coming  down  on  the  realization  of  the  poster 
which  had  found  more  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Adam's  sup- 
posititious father,  than  his  own.  It  appeared  that  the  full 
title  of  the  play  was  What  Rot!  or  The  Pursuit  of  the  Well- 
Beloved.  Some  of  the  business  of  the  last  act  was  incom- 
prehensible to  Adam  at  rehearsal,  but  then  the  last  act 
would  not  have  been  reached  but  for  Mr.  Onsin's  privilege 
of  saying:  "And  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so  on,"  instead  of 
his  speeches.  As  he  who  had  more  to  say  than  all  the 
others  put  together  pronounced  so  little  of  it,  this  was  a 
great  economy  of  time. 

Miss  Blake  read  the  part  of  Ned  Burke  and  Adam  was 
constrained  to  admit  that  she  read  it  very  charmingly,  if 
in  a  manner  which  he  found  it  impossible  to  believe  that 
an  Eton  boy  would  have  done  it  ...  but  then  he  had 


8o  IN  LONDON 

never  met  an  Eton  boy,  so  far  as  he  knew,  and  indeed 
knew  nothing  of  any  schoolboys  outside  Belvedere  and 
Clongowes,  and  although  Belvedere  boys  have  something 
in  common  with  Eton  boys  they  have  not  very  much  more 
than  an  odd  collar  and  a  shell  jacket.  As  he  watched  her, 
Adam  had  enough  sense  of  the  theater  to  realize  that  Miss 
Blake  would  be  more  successful  with  the  British  public 
than  he  could  hope  to  be  in  such  a  part.  So  his  heart  sank 
lower  still  as  he  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the  stalls,  feeling 
shy  of  loitering  too  near  the  stage  until  he  was  called  for. 
.  .  .  And  then  quite  suddenly,  with  an  electrical  thrill,  Mr. 
Onsin  actually  did  call  for  him. 

Adam  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears  when  at  the  end  of 
the  first  act  Mr.  Onsin,  in  reply  to  a  whispered  request 
from  Miss  Blake,  said  rather  loudly:  "Certainly,  my  dear, 
you  can  go  home  for  to-day  if  you  don't  feel  well,  I'll 
ask  Mr.  What-you-may-call-him  to  read  the  part,"  and  Adam 
was  forced  by  the  vain  effort  to  find  Mr.  What-you-may- 
call-him  in  the  theater,  to  realize  that  it  was  he.  ...  In 
a  moment  he  had  escaladed  the  stage  and  was  holding  out 
his  hand  for  the  part. 

As  he  read  it,  after  the  first  stumbling  effort  to  give 
the  lines  no  less  verve  than  Miss  Blake  had  given,  he  was 
conscious  of  two  things:  first,  that  he  was  succeeding  to 
his  own  satisfaction,  and  secondly  that  not  only  Mrs.  Onsin 
but  Mr.  Onsin  was  listening  with  unconcealed  interest.  By 
the  end  of  the  second  act  he  found  himself  ready  to  believe 
that  after  all  he  might  play  the  part  in  London.  He  was 
thinking  this,  with  his  eyes  on  the  gloom  of  the  dress  circle, 
into  which  he  was  trying  to  pitch  his  voice  that  it  might 
ring  through  the  house,  when  he  was  aware  of  a  door  open- 
ing at  the  back  of  it  and  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  tall  hat 
momentarily  opaque  against  the  daylight,  then  the  door 
closed  and  the  man  was  invisible,  though  he  could  be  heard 
shuffling  down  into  a  front  seat  with  the  manifest  inten- 


ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  81 

tion  of  watching  the  rehearsal.  Adam  wondered  if  Mr. 
Onsin  had  noticed  his  presence  and  if  he  approved  of  it. 
Perhaps  he  was  an  influential  member  of  the  Press  or  could 
he  be?  ...  No,  there  being  a  war  on,  Lord  Bulwark 
would  not  be  sitting  in  the  dress  circle  of  the  Grand 
Theater,  London,  during  fighting  hours  with  a  tall  hat  on 
his  head.  ...  At  least,  Adam  supposed  not.  .  .  .  Who- 
ever he  might  be,  Adam  hoped  he  should  find  an  oppor- 
tunity of  hearing  his  candid  opinion  of  his  impersonation 
of  Ned  Burke  in  What  Rot!  he  conceived  that  it  would  be 
favorable. 

From  midday  until  one  that  day  was  of  the  pleasantest 
hours  in  Adam's  life,  for  it  thrilled  with  unforeseen  suc- 
cess, the  edge  of  which  was  sharpened  rather  than  dulled 
by  the  wonderment  whether  it  was  not  all  a  dream.  When 
at  half -past  one  Mr.  Onsin  dismissed  the  company  for 
lunch,  he  asked  himself  if  now  he  would  awake  to  find 
there  was  nothing  in  it.  But  the  dream,  if  dream  it  was, 
went  on;  for  Mr.  Onsin,  saying  to  him  politely:  "Where 
do  you  lunch?"  the  fair  Belinda  broke  in:  "With  us,  of 
course,"  and  her  lord  and  master  with  unwonted  urbanity 
declared  the  idea  not  a  bad  one.  So  Adam  in  triumph, 
with  Mrs.  Onsin  on  his  right  and  Mr.  Onsin  on  his  left, 
swept  out  through  the  stage-door,  across,  as  it  were,  the 
vanquished  form  of  the  door-keeper,  out  of  Regent  Street 
and  into  the  Haymarket,  and  so  entered  a  restaurant  where 
everybody  seemed  to  welcome  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin  graciously  acknowledged  the  homage 
of  a  few. 

As  Adam  sat  there,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin  alternately 
offering  him  the  rarest  dishes  mentioned  in  the  menu  .  .  . 
and  the  war  had  not  yet  reached  that  stage  when  a  mutton 
cutlet  was  worth  its  weight  in  gold  ...  he  felt  that  he  had 
indeed  arrived,  and  might  be  justified  in  sending  his  photo- 
graphs to  the  Evening  Telegraph  with  the  intimation  that 


82  IN  LONDON 

he  might  now  be  described  as  a  leading  London  actor.  It 
was  therefore  a  little  disappointing  when  Mr.  Onsin  opened 
the  professional  side  of  their  conversation  by  inquiring 
whether  he  had  ever  suffered  from  adenoids,  and  Mrs. 
Onsin  instead  of  protesting  said:  "That's  just  what  struck 
me." 

On  the  other  hand  they  were  equally  surprised  when 
Adam  with  his  mouth  full  of  soup,  for  he  was  taken  aback 
and  careless  of  his  manners,  being  much  puzzled,  and  show- 
ing it  in  his  countenance,  repeated  the  word  adenoids  and 
added:  "D'ye  mean  boils?" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Onsin  did  not  mean  boils,  they  were  clear 
on  that  point;  but  they  were  not  sufficiently  enlightened 
about  the  nature  of  adenoids  to  be  able  to  explain  that  dis- 
tressing complaint  to  Adam,  though  Mr.  Onsin  illustrated 
the  best-known  symptoms  by  a  semi-ventriloquial  conver- 
sation between  a  lover  and  his  lass,  both  suffering  from 
the  same.  This  was  taking  a  Rabelaisian  turn  which  Adam 
feared  must,  if  persevered  in,  shock  Mrs.  Onsin's  feelings, 
and  he  was  kept  busy  in  showing  his  appreciation  of  Mr. 
Onsin's  jokes  and  at  the  same  time  affecting  not  to  under- 
stand them,  when  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  figure  in  a  tall 
hat  and  frock  coat  walking  up  the  restaurant  towards  them. 
.  .  .  Where  had  he  seen  that  figure  before?  .  .  .  Entering 
the  dress  circle  during  rehearsal.  .  .  .  And  where  before? 
.  .  .  Never  in  a  tall  hat  and  a  frock  coat.  .  .  .  "Why!" 
cried  Mrs.  Onsin,  "here's  Stephen  Macarthy." 

It  is  a  fact  that  Adam  had  been  so  mightily  pleased  with 
his  own  greatness  during  the  past  couple  of  hours  that  he 
had  forgotten  his  guardian  altogether,  forgotten  even  to 
anticipate  the  pleasure  of  bragging  to  him  of  his  success. 
Although  he  had  first  heard  the  names  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Onsin  and  their  Grand  Theater  and  their  equally  grand 
success,  What  Rot!  in  the  program  of  that  production 
that  hung  between  the  crucifix  and  the  portrait  of  Erasmus 


ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  83 

over  the  mantelpiece  in  Mr.  Macarthy's  bedroom  at  Dublin, 
he  could  not  associate  the  idea  of  Mr.  Onsin  or  Mrs.  Onsin 
or  What  Rot!  with  Mr.  Macarthy:  they  seemed  to  him  to 
belong  to  different  worlds,  as  different  as  the  worlds  that 
contained  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  and  Mr. 
Byron  O'Toole.  .  .  .  Though  indeed  these  two  happened 
to  be,  or  appeared  to  be,  mother  and  son.  .  .  .  All  that  be- 
longed to  a  past  so  fantastical  as  to  be  no  longer  credible, 
but  the  Mr.  Macarthy  who  lifted  his  hat  to  shake  hands 
with  Mrs.  Onsin  was  as  real  as  the  Mr.  Macarthy  who 
lifted  it  to  Barbara  Burns,  now  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar.  .  .  . 
And  here  he  asked  himself  what  Barbara  would  say  when 
she  heard  of  his  success,  as  sooner  or  later  she  must,  as  a 
London  actor. 

Then  Mr.  Onsin  said  an  astonishing  thing  as  he  rose 
good-humoredly  also  to  take  Mr.  Macarthy's  hand: 
"You're  late,  old  chap,  we'd  given  you  up." 

Mrs.  Onsin  raised  her  eyebrows:  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  Stephen  was  coming?"  Mr.  Onsin  murmured  that  she 
forgot  everything. 

Mrs.  Onsin,  beaming  on  Stephen,  said  there  were  things 
no  woman  could  forget;  and  Adam  wondered  whether  she 
meant  more  by  this  than  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  ear. 
Anyhow,  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared  to  take  his  being  ex- 
pected or  not  expected  equally  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
sat  down  by  Mrs.  Onsin  as  easily  as  if  he  had  sat  by  her 
all  his  life.  Of  Adam,  who  sat  opposite  him  at  the  square 
table,  he  took  no  fresh  notice  and  Adam  understood  that 
the  less  he  said  for  the  present  the  better. 

"I  wish  you'd  been  to  the  theater  this  morning,"  Mrs. 
Onsin  said.  "We're  rehearsing  What  Rot!  so  you  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Onsin  casting  a  glance  behind  him  as  though  to  warn 
her  to  beware  of  eavesdroppers,  broke  in:  "He  was  there, 
my  dear." 

Mrs.    Onsin    dropped    her    hand    on    Mr.    Macarthy's, 


84  IN  LONDON 

"Stephen,  be  sweet,"  she  besought  him,  "tell  me  I'm  going 
to  do  it  better  than  ever." 

"You  always  do  everything  better  than  ever,  as  you  will 
hardly  need  to  be  told,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Mrs.  Onsin  fell  eagerly  upon  a  cutlet,  declaring:  "That's 
very  nicely  put,  Stephen,"  and  Adam  wondered  whether 
she  really  thought  so;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  might 
mean  anything.  There  was  silence  as  Mr.  Onsin  moodily 
chewed  beefsteak. 

At  last  he  said,  with  the  slightest  possible  inclination  of 
his  elbow  in  Adam's  direction:  "And  what  do  you  think  of 
What-you-call-him  ?" 

To  this  question  Mr.  Macarthy  returned  another :  "When 
does  the  Spring  tour  start?" 

"Eastbourne,  Easter  Saturday,"  the  manager  said. 

"Have  you  your  full  company  ?" 

"More  or  less,"  said  the  manager,  "except  Ned  Burke. 
Ned  Burke  is  always  the  difficulty." 

"And  it's  such  a  beautiful  part,"  Mrs.  Onsin  interpo- 
lated, "it  seems  a  pity  to  spoil  it  by  putting  a  fat  man  of 
fifty  to  play  it,  and  of  course  it's  still  worse  to  have  it 
played  by  a  woman." 

"I'd  rather  see  it  played  by  a  woman  than  by  a  fat  man 
of  fifty,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said;  "in  that  my  taste  is  popular. 
At  Eastbourne  I  think  you  will  be  quite  safe  rather  than 
that,  in  trusting  it  to  What-you-call-him." 

Mrs.  Onsin  said:  "I  really  thought  this  morning  he  was 
quite  good  enough  to  play  it  in  town." 

Mr.  Onsin  shook  his  head  indulgently  and  seemed  to  ap- 
peal to  Mr.  Macarthy,  who  replied:  "I  dare  say  he  is,  but 
I  don't  consider  that  at  the  present  moment  town  would  be 
good  for  him;  he  has  too  much  to  learn  that  can't  be 
learned  in  London,  but  the  rough  and  tumble  of  a  tour  will 
begin  to  teach  him  something." 

Mr.  Onsin  seemed  offended  by  the  phrase  "rough  and 


ADAM  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  85 

tumble."  "It's  quite  a  first-class  tour,"  he  said.  "East- 
bourne is  not  a  bad  booking  for  Easter  Week." 

"Where  do  you  go  afterwards?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked. 

Mr.  Onsin  gave  his  face  the  expression  of  one  who  re- 
calls with  difficulty  a  matter  important  in  itself  but  paling 
into  insignificance  in  the  light  of  his  own  importance.  "I 
send  them  to  Portsmouth  and  .  .  .  places  like  that." 

"What  places  are  like  Portsmouth?"  Mr.  Macarthy  in- 
quired. "Do  you  mean  Plymouth?" 

After  some  hesitation  Mr.  Onsin  confessed  that  he  did 
not  mean  Plymouth,  he  meant  Ramsgate  and  Folkestone; 
but  was  not  sure  about  Folkestone  on  account  of  the  war. 
He  repeated  the  assertion  that  it  was  a  first-class  tour,  but 
Adam  saw  by  his  guardian's  countenance  that  it  was  noth- 
ing of  the  kind. 

"From  my  point  of  view,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "it  is  im- 
material whether  it  is  a  first-class  tour,  but  it  is  essential 
that  it  should  be  some  class.  Tolerable  theaters  or  halls 
and  possibly  decent  audiences." 

Mr.  Onsin  was  ironical.  "Did  you  think  it  was  a  fit-up 
tour?"  he  said  point  blank. 

And  equally  point  blank  Mr.  Macarthy  answered  he 
thought  it  quite  possible,  but  would  believe  Mr.  Onsin's 
assurance  that  it  was  not  if  he  could  offer  Adam  a  salary 
of  five  pounds  a  week. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Onsin  smiled  his  famous  smile  and 
called  for  another  bottle  of  wine.  "To  prove  to  you  that 
it's  a  first-class  tour,  old  man,  we'll  make  it  guineas," 
said  he. 

And  in  Mr.  Onsin's  den  at  the  Grand  Theater  that  very 
afternoon  a  contract  was  drawn  up  and  duly  signed  and 
stamped,  by  which  Oswald  Onsin,  Esquire,  of  the  one  part, 
and  Adam  Quinn,  Esquire  of  the  other,  agreed  that  the 
latter  should  perform  the  part  of  Ned  Burke,  or  such  other 
part  as  might  be  allotted  to  him  in  the  comedy  known  as 


86  IN  LONDON 

What  Rot!  or  such  other  play  as  might  be  performed 
during  that  period  of  twelve  weeks  from  the  date  of  sign- 
ing this  agreement,  and  that  the  former  should  pay  the 
latter  in  consideration  of  this  a  sum  of  five  guineas  weekly 
for  the  said  period. 

As  Mr.  Macarthy  and  his  young  charge  left  the  theater 
together,  Stephen  said  to  him  casually:  "Well,  Mr.  Quinn, 
you're  an  uncommonly  lucky  young  man.  As  a  reward 
for  drowning  yourself  you  are  put  into  a  fair  way  of 
making  your  fortune." 

Adam  looked  up  at  his  guardian,  his  eyes  overflowing 
with  triumph.  "D'ye  think  I'm  going  to  make  my  for- 
tune?" he  asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  down  on  him  kindly:  "How  on 
earth  should  I  know?"  he  said,  "but  it's  clear  to  me  that 
Mr.  Onsin,  who  is  as  shrewd  a  business  man  as  any  on  the 
stage,  thinks  that  you're  capable  of  making  a  fortune  for 
some  one." 

"I'd  like  to  think,"  said  Adam,  "that  I  was  going  to  be 
a  success." 

"And  I,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "would  like  to  think  that 
you  were  going  to  deserve  it." 


ADAM  GOES  ON  TOUR 

FOR  some  weeks  in  the  spring  of  that  year  there  was  no 
war  on  for  Adam.  True,  everywhere  he  went  most  men 
were  in  khaki,  temporary  soldiers,  terribly  many  for  the 
little  time  that  remained  of  their  lives ;  but  so  far  as  Adam 
was  concerned  they  might  have  been  made  of  tin:  they 
meant  no  more  to  him  than  to  the  wire-pullers  down  in 
Whitehall  who  flung  them  to  destruction  on  this  or  that 
sector  on  the  endless  line  of  front,  according  to  the  wild- 
cat inspiration  of  the  moment.  In  the  defense  of  liberty 
the  youth  of  Britain  had  all  been  enslaved,  and  a  consid- 
erable percentage  were  in  the  course  of  being  massacred. 
Adam  was  aware  of  this  and  puzzled  by  it,  but  supposed 
that  Britons  being  born  free  were  taking  their  pleasure  in 
this  manner.  Their  capital,  despite  the  darkness  of  the 
streets  at  night,  was  alight  with  the  hectic  fury  of  a  fair 
where  everything  without  exception  could  be  bought  and 
sold.  All  he  knew  was  that  his  talents  were  going  to  pro- 
vide him  with  sufficient  income  that  even  at  his  tender  age 
he  could  hope  to  enjoy  much  of  the  fun  of  the  fair. 

But  his  head  was  not  in  any  way  turned:  he  realized 
that  other  men's  misfortunes  had  given  him  his  oppor- 
tunity and  he  set  himself  to  deserve  his  good  luck.  And 
his  prospective  five  pounds  a  week  was  not  to  be  paid  him 
for  nothing.  If  Adam  did  not  spend  many  hours  rehears- 
ing, he  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  waiting  to  be 
rehearsed.  Mr.  Onsin  called  his  provincial  company  at  the 
same  hour^  as  his  London  one,  laying  down  the  rule  that 


88  IN  LONDON 

the  lesser  actors  should  model  themselves  on  their  London 
betters,  and  make  the  provincial  performance  as  exact  a 
replica  of  the  Grand  production  as  their  power  of  mimicry 
allowed.  Happily,  as  the  part  of  Ned  Burke  was  now 
definitely  given  to  Miss  Blake  for  the  London  show,  Adam 
was  excused  from  the  ignominy  of  directly  copying  her. 

He  was  also  fortunate  in  the  fact  that  Lord  Algy  Tap- 
low  in  the  provincial  cast  was  played  by  a  young-looking 
man  of  forty  or  so,  who,  in  the  days  of  his  histrionic 
youth,  had  made  a  success  as  Ned  Burke  in  the  original 
production.  Since  then  he  had  been  permanently  in  Mr. 
Onsin's  employ,  as  his  understudy,  until  the  shortage  of 
actors  rising  from  the  war  made  it  necessary  to  send  him 
out  on  tour  in  a  part  wherein  Adam  preferred  him  to  the 
original.  But  Mr.  Macarthy  explained  that  he  was  not 
really  better  than  Mr.  Onsin,  his  merit  lying  in  the  fact  that 
to  the  business  learned  from  his  master  he  added  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  more  sympathetic  personality.  ...  A  sympa- 
thetic personality  was  in  Mr.  Macarthy's  opinion  the  quali- 
fication most  valuable  to  an  actor  who  wooed  success  in 
the  English  theater.  Anything  on  the  stage  that  suggested 
the  working  of  a  brain,  unless  it  were  the  brain  of  the  more 
innocent  sort  of  detective,  roused  the  aversion  of  a  London 
audience;  but  an  actor  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  manner 
and  not  too  harsh  a  voice  could  do  what  he  liked  with  them, 
in  the  matter  of  plays,  or  if  exceptionally  ingratiating,  even 
the  matter  of  morals,  always  provided  that  his  immorality 
was  expressed  in  physical  and  not  in  intellectual  terms.  To 
hoodwink  a  husband  and  kiss  his  wife,  covering  the  act 
with  a  laughing  lie,  was  a  delightfully  spirited  thing  for  a 
hero  to  do;  but  to  tell  him  that  you  considered  yourself  at 
liberty  to  kiss  his  wife  if  she  desired  it  was  an  impropriety 
not  to  be  tolerated  in  a  respectable  playhouse.  It  was, 
after  all,  the  basic  teaching  of  the  Christian  churches  that 


ADAM  GOES  ON  TOUR  89 

it  did  not  greatly  matter  what  you  did  so  long  as  you  ad- 
mitted that  you  were  doing  wrong. 

But  Adam  troubled  himself  not  at  all  about  morals  dur- 
ing those  delightful  April  days  (in  point  of  fact  rather 
cold  and  rainy),  when  on  the  eve  of  his  seventeenth  birth- 
day he  found  himself  rehearsing  a  real  part  in  a  real  if 
uncommonly  silly  play  with  every  prospect  of  a  personal 
success.  It  seemed  to  him  a  good  omen  that  the  day 
chosen  for  their  opening  performances  at  Eastbourne,  one 
in  the  afternoon  and  one  at  night,  actually  should  be  his 
seventeenth  birthday.  He  confided  this  information  to  Mr. 
Arthur  Sackville,  the  name  by  which  the  leading  member 
of  the  company  was  known  to  him,  and  Mr.  Sackville 
showed  a  proper  interest.  Looking  at  Adam  with  kind 
eyes,  he  said:  "You  are  a  lucky  little  chap,  you  know;  I 
was  over  thirty  before  they  thought  me  good  enough  to 
play  a  part  like  that;  but  of  course,"  he  added,  "that  was 
a  question  of  creating  it  in  London,  and  you  mustn't  think 
me  vain  if  I  say  that  it  is  one  thing  to  play  a  part  in  an 
already  successful  piece  in  the  provinces,  and  another  thing 
to  create  a  role  that  is  only  just  words  on  paper  until  you 
have  made  what  you  can  of  it." 

Adam  said  that  he  would  never  have  the  courage  to  play 
such  a  big  part  in  an  original  production.  He  did  not 
mean  this,  and  Mr.  Sackville  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
did  not  mean  it,  but  appreciated  the  implicit  deference. 
"If  you  play  the  part,"  said  he,  "as  well  as  you  rehearse 
it,  I  have  very  little  doubt  that  with  your  influence  you 
will  be  creating  big  parts  in  London  before  long,  or  at  any 
rate  at  an  age  when  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  me 
to  get  even  a  minor  London  engagement." 

"Is  it  so  difficult  to  get  a  London  engagement?"  Adam 
asked. 

"Before  the  war,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "for  a  man  mak- 


90  IN  LONDON 

ing  his  daily  bread  and  with  no  social  influence  it  was 
practically  impossible.  But  the  war,  with  its  drain  on  the 
life-blood  of  the  younger  people,  has  changed  all  that  for 
so  long  as  it  lasts."  He  lowered  his  voice:  "The  war  is  a 
blessing  to  an  enormous  number  of  actors  who  have  not 
been  employed  for  years." 

"And  when  the  war  comes  to  an  end?"  Adam  asked. 
Mr.  Sackville  shook  his  head  sadly:  "I  dare  not  think  of 
it,"  he  murmured. 

Adam  almost  dropped  his  voice  to  a  startled  whisper. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  want  the  war  to  go  on?" 

"God  forbid!"  the  other  exclaimed,  "not  for  my  own 
sake  anyhow,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  a  middle-aged  man 
that  I'd  rather  have  had  my  life  put  out  with  a  bullet  at 
your  age  than  live  to  die  of  starvation  in  my  old  age." 

Adam  was  horrified  so  far  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
lose  countenance  in  his  happy  mood.  "Surely  that  won't 
happen  to  many?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Sackville's  fine  and  pleasant  face  fell  into  dreary 
curves  as  he  answered :  "It  will  happen  to  half  a  dozen  of 
our  make-believe  young  sparks  in  this  theater  within  three 
years  of  the  firing  of  the  last  shot." 

Adam  was  saddened  by  what  Mr.  Sackville  said,  but 
gladdened  by  the  kindly  way  he  said  it;  for  he  felt  that  in 
this  modest  gentleman  whose  artistry  if  not  brilliant,  was 
sincere,  he  would  have  a  worthy  friend.  Mr.  Macarthy 
agreed  with  him. 

Of  his  guardian  in  those  days  of  his  new  life  he  did  not 
see  a  great  deal,  yet  he  saw  more  than  some  youths  would 
have  expected.  He  was  frequently  at  the  theater  during 
rehearsal  time,  and,  although  he  was  never  heard  to  com- 
ment upon  what  he  saw,  from  time  to  time  alterations  were 
made  by  Mr.  Onsin  which  Adam  guessed  were  suggested 
by  Mr.  Macarthy.  One  night  he  dined  at  Norfolk  Square 
with  his  young  friend  and  Miss  Durward,  and  more  than 


ADAM  GOES  ON  TOUR  91 

once  she  and  Adam  dined  at  a  public  restaurant  with  him, 
going  to  a  theater  or  music  hall  afterwards.  So  Adam  in 
less  than  a  month's  time,  which  was  all  that  he  had,  before 
starting  on  tour,  made  some  acquaintance  with  the  light 
side  of  London.  Whether  Miss  Durward  accompanied 
him  or  not,  he  spent  every  other  evening  with  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy ;  his  days,  as  has  been  said,  were  given  to  Mr.  Onsin, 
who  wasted  a  great  deal  of  them.  Once  during  that  month 
there  was  a  real  air-raid,  but  Adam,  asleep  in  bed  when  it 
commenced,  knew  nothing  about  it  until  next  day;  for  he 
slept  the  sleep  of  contented  youth. 

In  her  good-humored  way  Miss  Durward  seemed  to  re- 
gard it  as  a  grievance  that  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not  lodge  at 
Norfolk  Square.  It  is  true  that  she  had  not  a  room  avail- 
able, but  she  threw  out  fairly  strong  hints  that  if  he  would 
not  be  satisfied  with  an  extra  bed  in  Adam's  room,  she  was 
prepared  to  put  the  bed  up  in  her  own  den  next  the  bath- 
room. But  Mr.  Macarthy  declared  that  it  would  be  an 
infamy  to  cause  her  inconvenience,  and  stayed  on  at  Mrs. 
Ap John's.  Adam  did  not  see  how  it  could  be  an  infamy 
to  do  for  Miss  Durward  what  she  wanted,  but  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy insisted  that  she  did  not  really  want  it.  Adam  even 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  suspected  Miss  Durward  of 
being  in  love  with  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  de- 
clared that  the  facts  were  to  the  contrary.  This  puzzled 
Adam  so  much  that  he  did  not  farther  pursue  the  matter. 
Anyhow,  the  idea  of  Miss  Durward  or  any  woman  being 
in  love  with  his  guardian  always  appeared  to  him  in  the 
light  of  a  joke.  Younger  and  prettier  ladies  than  Miss 
Durward  and  Mrs.  Onsin  had  affected  to  be  interested  in 
that  humorous  old  bachelor.  .  .  .  Was  Mr.  Macarthy  an 
old  bachelor?  .  ,  .  It  was  odd  to  think  how  little  he  knew 
about  Mr.  Macarthy.  Often  it  was  on  his  lips  to  ask  him 
why  he  had  never  married,  but  somehow,  widely  as  his 
questions  ranged,  they  never  ranged  so  far  as  that,  Mr, 


92  IN  LONDON 

Macarthy,  ready  as  he  was  to  encourage  questions  on 
almost  every  subject,  turned  aside  those  which  tended 
toward  gossip;  even  of  Adam's  scandalous  parents,  whom 
it  would  be  reasonable  to  suppose  he  held  in  abhorrence,  he 
answered  no  questions  in  scandalous  terms:  for  him 
Adam's  mother  was  a  woman  to  be  pitied  if  avoided,  and 
his  father  a  man  to  be  laughed  at  rather  than  damned, 
except,  indeed,  as  example. 

But  if  Adam  thought  little  of  Mr.  Macarthy 's  love- 
affairs,  he  devoted  some  attention  to  his  own.  London 
in  war  time  hummed  with  the  love  affairs  of  young  and 
old,  and  the  Grand  Theater  stood  in«a  situation  too  near 
the  center  of  things  for  an  ardent  young  man  to  be  un- 
conscious of  the  sea  of  sexuality  in  storm  around  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  every  woman  he  met  that  spring  in 
London  might  be  won  by  a  passionate  wooer,  and  in  theory 
he  was  such  a  one,  but  in  practice  quite  otherwise.  Once 
already  he  had  known  love  in  what  he  believed  to  be  its 
entirety.  That  was  with  Caroline  Brady,  whose  tombstone 
in  Glasnevin,  placed  over  her  by  Mr.  Macarthy,  pleaded 
for  remembrance  as  his  friend.  Once  or  twice  that  month 
when  temptation  conjured  up  some  facile  successor,  poor 
Caroline's  tombstone  oddly  -barred  the  way.  He  knew 
without  being  told  that  it  was  to  this  end  his  guardian  had 
sought  to  perpetuate  the  unlucky  child's  memory.  Thanks 
to  the  man  she  had  vaguely  worshiped  from  afar,  her  in- 
glorious existence  had  become  valuable  even  in  its  grave. 
He  was  too  young  to  be  successful  in  his  effort  to  analyze 
his  motive  for  being  faithful  to  her  ghost.  He  visualized 
no  meeting  beyond  the  grave,  nor  even  desired  it.  So  far 
as  he  voluntarily  sentimentalized,  his  thought  conjured  up 
Josephine  O'Meagher  sorry  for  herself  being  a  nun.  He 
still  thought  of  a  nun  as  one  severed  utterly  from  life,  as 
Curtius  when  he  plunged  into  the  gaping  fissure  that  threat- 
ened Rome. 


93 

His  fancy  wantoned  with  the  Woodbine  Blakes  of  his 
new  world,  this  or  that  Thais  sat  by  him  in  his  dreams. 
Withal  when  the  Eastbourne  train  steamed  out  of  Victoria, 
with  the  What  Rot!  touring  company  as  its  least  warlike 
freight,  he  left  London  as  innocent  as  he  had  entered  it; 
faithful  in  spirit  to  Josephine  O'Meagher,  in  sentiment  to 
Barbara  Carahar,  and  in  fact  to  Caroline  Brady. 

It  is  true  that  at  Victoria  Station  he  was  disappointed 
to  find  that  the  ladies  of  the  company  traveled  by  them- 
selves and  so  he  was  to  miss  the  chance  of  a  long  desired 
tete-a-tete  with  beautiful  Drusilla  Dartmouth,  who  played 
Lady  Lucina  on  tour.  As  she  glided  down  the  platform 
to  the  train,  ushered  thither  by  two  red-tabbed  officers  of 
princely  bearing,  Adam  thought  her  as  exquisite  as  her  in- 
spiring name.  Even  when,  later  on,  he  learned  from  Mr. 
Sackville  that  she  was  known  to  her  intimates  as  Peggie 
Simpson  of  Paisley,  he  was  steadfast  to  his  opinion  that 
she  was  rather  nice-looking.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  it  was  a  suf- 
ficiently happy  position  for  a  lad  on  the  eve  of  his  seven- 
teenth birthday  (and  the  more  so  when  he  remembered 
his  seventh,  spent  in  the  abomination  of  squalor)  to  find 
himself  traveling  as  the  intimate  friend  of  the  leading  actor 
of  a  troupe  of  which  he  himself  was  not  the  least  impor- 
tant member. 

Mr.  Macarthy  had  not  come  to  the  train  to  say  good-by 
to  him,  warning  Adam  that  it  were  best  not  to  emphasize 
his  extreme  youthfulness.  "The  infant  prodigy  has  no 
place  in  art,"  he  explained.  "Thanks  more  than  anything 
else  to  your  youth  you've  got  an  opening  on  the  stage  that 
may  well  lead  to  success,  but  remember  that  youth  is 
merely  a  qualification  and  not  a  quality."  He  added :  "At 
best  it  remains  a  qualification  for  a  devilish  short  time." 
And  again  he  said:  "I  think  you  may  be  going  to  have  a 
real  success  in  What  Rot!  but  that  is  not  to  say  that  I 
think  you  will  ever  have  a  success  in  anything  else." 


94  IN  LONDON 

Adam  looked  up  at  him,  troubled.  "D'you  mean  that 
you  don't  think  me  as  good  as  the  others  think  me?" 

"I  think  you  quite  good  in  What  Rot!,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
answered,  "but  What  Rot!  is  .  .  ."  he  broke  off:  "I  gave 
it  that  name  myself,"  and  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

SUCCESS 

ON  the  platform  of  Victoria  Station  Adam  had  smoked  a 
cigarette.  It  was  his  duty  in  the  character  of  Ned  Burke 
to  do  so,  and  he  was  striving  to  acquire  the  habit  of  doing 
it  naturally.  Nevertheless  his  cigarette  was  usually  out,  and 
he  knew  it  was  not  good  form  to  relight  it,  so  he  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  chewing  the  end  and  upsetting  his  di- 
gestion with  particles  of  tobacco.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  he  never  learned  how  really  to  smoke  but  he  did  gain 
from  Mr.  Sackville  the  more  important  professional  knowl- 
edge of  how  to  hold  a  cigarette  naturally  in  the  mouth 
without  distorting  it.  Mr.  Sackville  had  arranged  with  his 
young  friend  to  share  his  rooms  on  tour,  so  Adam  had 
every  opportunity  of  modeling  himself  on  a  player  who 
combined  all  the  studied  graces  that  mark  the  perfect  gen- 
tleman of  the  theater  without  losing  the  simplicity  of  heart 
which  keeps  a  man  a  gentleman  in  reality.  Nevertheless 
he  refused  a  second  cigarette  which  Mr.  Sackville  offered 
him  in  the  train  when  he  threw  the  mangled  remains  of 
the  first  out  of  the  window. 

Mr.  Sackville  nodded  indulgently  as  he  returned  his  ciga- 
rette-case to  his  pocket.  "You're  quite  right,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Bad  habit,  spoils  the  voice.  I  commenced  when 
I  was  too  young  to  know  better.  There  was  no  one  to 
warn  me.  And  now  I  find  it  hard  to  leave  off.  .  .  .  It's 
better  than  drinking.  I've  never  dore  that." 

"I  wonder  what  you  do  do?"  growled  the  low  comedian 
of  the  company,  a  gentleman  of  singularly  unattractive 
mien.  .  .  .  "I've  never  known  you  even  womanize,  and  I 

95 


96  IN  LONDON 

don't  suppose  ...  at  least  I've  never  heard  .  .  ."  he  broke 
off  with  a  leer  which  roused  an  echoing  chuckle  from  one 
or  two  of  the  elderly  young  bucks.  .  .  .  Adam  did  not  un- 
derstand why.  Mr.  Sackville,  to  his  disappointment,  did 
not  crush  the  low  comedian,  but  turning  a  little  pink,  looked 
out  of  the  window,  and  presently  took  up  a  novel,  which 
he  read  or  appeared  to  read  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
Adam,  sitting  opposite  to  him,  was  content  to  admire  the 
beauties  of  Surrey  and  Sussex,  seen  to-day  for  the  first 
time. 

And  while  he  gazed  at  these  agreeable  shires,  whose 
beauties,  springing  to  fresh  life  in  the  April  sunlight,  could 
not  be  hidden  even  by  the  clouds  of  smoke  from  the  loco- 
motive or  the  ingenuity  for  circumventing  the  attractions 
of  nature  displayed  by  the  engineer  of  the  line,  he  saw  also 
the  change  that  had  come  over  his  life  in  one  short  month. 
This  was  the  third  Thursday  in  April.  .  .  .  The  third 
Thursday  of  March  he  had  been  in  Dublin  with  never  a 
thought  of  leaving  it,  not  knowing  how  he  could  leave  it 
if  he  should  ever  want  to.  He  had  sometimes  thought  of 
going  on  the  stage,  but  never  imagined  that  he  should  do 
so  through  any  door  but  that  of  the  Abbey  Theater.  The 
idea  of  going  to  England  and  joining  a  theatrical  company 
there  had  seemed  fantastic.  Above  all,  that  he  should  be 
playing  a  part  in  the  derided  and  despised  What  Rot! 
which  Mr.  Macarthy  agreed  with  every  one  in  Dublin  in 
regarding  as  the  acme  of  British  silliness,  was  really  too 
incredible. 

At  their  lodgings  that  evening  he  asked  Mr.  Sackville 
to  tell  him  in  confidence  what  he  thought  of  the  play  in 
which  they  were  about  to  appear. 

Mr.  Sackville's  fine  face,  the  resemblance  of  which  to 
Forbes  Robertson's  had  led  him  from  a  secure  but  ill-paid 
berth  in  an  Insurance  Office  to  one  almost  as  secure  and 
incomparably  more  remunerative  upon  the  stage,  betrayed 


SUCCESS  97 

a  painful  doubt  in  Mr.  Sackville's  mind.  "I  cannot  say 
that  I've  ever  thought  about  it,"  said  he.  "To  me  it  is 
simply  a  piece  in  which  I  am  engaged  to  appear." 

"But  do  you  think  it  a  good  piece?"  Adam  urged. 

"That  is  a  very  difficult  question,"  Mr.  Sackville  pro- 
tested. "I  remember  to  have  read  such  varying  notices." 

"But  I  mean  what  you  yourself  think  of  it,"  Adam  in- 
sisted. 

The  trouble  on  Mr.  Sackville's  face  deepened  and  then 
vanished  in  a  smile.  "I've  never  seen  it  from  the  front," 
said  he. 

"I've  never  seen  it  at  all,"  Adam  blurted,  "but  I  think 
it  rubbish." 

Mr.  Sackville  was  clearly  pained.  "Come,  come,  that's 
too  severe,"  he  said.  "Of  course  it's  not  to  be  compared 
with  Romeo  and  Juliet  or  The  Lady  of  Lyons  or  any  other 
standard  play.  It  belongs  to  the  second  rank  like  East 
Lynne  and  Sweet  Lavender,  only,  of  course,  it's  quite  dif- 
ferent, being  so  up-to-date.  I'm  not  sure  if  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

Adam  said  it  was  quite  clear  but  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  whether  his  friends  thought  What  Rot!  a  good  play 
or  not.  "What  is  East  Lynne  f"  he  asked. 

"A  very  beautiful  play  of  a  kind  not  at  the  moment  very 
fashionable,"  Mr.  Sackville  said. 

"What's  it  about?"  Adam  asked. 

"About  a  lady  who  is  an  earl's  daughter  but  marries 
a  solicitor  and  is  seduced  by  a  baronet,  and  comes  back  as 
a  governess  to  find  her  only  child  dying  without  recogniz- 
ing her  because  she  wears  spectacles  to  disguise  herself 
from  her  husband,"  Mr.  Sackville  said,  not  without  emo- 
tion. "You  see,  quite  a  simple  story,  but  touching  on  the 
stage." 

"Is  it?"  said  Adam.  "It  sounds  to  me  worse  than 
What  Rot!" 


98  IN  LONDON 

"I  may  have  described  it  badly,"  said  Mr.  Sackville, 
"and  no  doubt  to  a  young  blood  like  yourself  it  will  seem 
old-fashioned,  but  it's  the  most  successful  play  of  its  kind 
ever  written,  I  assure  you." 

"I  know  a  lady,"  said  Adam,  "who  was  the  daughter 
of  a  nobleman,  and  was  seduced  by  a  baronet,  and  wears 
spectacles,"  he  paused. 

"Do  you?"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "that  seems  quite  a  co- 
incidence, doesn't  it?  I  hope  she  didn't  lose  her  children?" 

"She  lost  one,  anyhow,"  said  Adam. 

Mr.  Sackville  made  a  melancholy  sound  with  his  lips. 
"Poor  lady.  Did  her  child  die?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "she  gave  it  to  the  charwoman." 

"For  keeps,  so  to  speak?"  Mr.  Sackville  asked,  "or  was 
it  what  you  might  call  baby-farming?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Adam  said,  "but  anyhow,  the  char- 
woman left  it  in  a  tram." 

"That's  almost  suggestive  of  Oscar  Wilde,  isn't  it? 
More  like  an  invention  than  a  fact?"  Mr.  Sackville  argued. 
"I  really  can't  remember  a  similar  case  except,  of  course, 
Rousseau;  he  always  did  that  with  his  children." 

"Gave  them  to  the  charwoman?"  Adam  asked  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"Well,  not  exactly  the  charwoman,"  said  Mr.  Sackville, 
"but  he  gave  them  to  the  Foundling  Hospital,  so  that  they 
were  as  completely  lost  to  him  as  if  he  had  given  them  to 
the  charwoman  and  she  had  left  them  about  in  trams. 
Not  of  course  that  there  were  trams  in  Rousseau's  time, 
although  Fve  been  told  that  there  were  omnibuses  in  Paris 
as  long  ago  as  the  seventeenth  century.  .  .  .  Did  a  man 
called  Pascal  have  something  to  do  with  it?" 

Adam  said  that  Pascal  was  a  religious  writer,  and  he 
did  not  think  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  omnibuses. 

"But  he  was  a  mathematician,  too,"  Mr.  Sackville  re- 


SUCCESS  99 

joined,  "so  he  might  have  been  a  shareholder,  mightn't 
he?"  It  was  obvious  that  it  did  not  matter  to  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  what  he  talked  about  so  long  as  he  had  not  to  talk 
about  What  Rot! 

But  Adam  had  the  gift  of  hanging  on  to  his  own  ideas. 
"You  were  telling  me,"  he  ventured  to  assert,  "what  you 
thought  about  W hat  Rot!  from  an  acting  point  of  view." 

"From  an  acting  point  of  view,"  Mr.  Sackville  declared 
without  hesitation,  "it's  one  of  the  finest  plays  ever  writ- 
ten. Grips  you,  if  it  grips  you  at  all,  and  I'm  assuming 
that  you  like  that  sort  of  play  or  you  wouldn't  go  to  see 
it  ...  it  grips  you  from  start  to  finish.  Positively  there's 
not  a  dull  line  in  it.  In  that  way  it's  far  better  than  East 
Lynne,  where  the  sentiment  is  a  bit  thick  if  always  clean 
and  thoroughly  English,  which  What  Rot!  is  not.  And 
What  Rot!  is  always  cheerful.  East  Lynne  is  almost  as 
sad  as  King  Lear.  .  .  .  But  please  don't  think  I  rank  it 
with  Lear.  The  Bard  stands  alone." 

"Did  Mr.  Onsin  write  East  Lynne  too?"  Adam  inquired. 

Mr.  Sackville  repeated  the  question  pensively,  and  added 
the  question:  "What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Adam,  "did  he  write  East  Lynne  as  well 
as  What  Rot!" 

For  once  Mr.  Sackville's  slightly  melancholy  smile 
broadened  to  laughter.  "I've  never  heard  dear  old  Oswald 
say  he  wrote  East  Lynne,"  said  he,  "and  I  rather  think 
it  was  done  before  he  was  born.  I  don't  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  name  of  an  author  of  a  play  unless  it's  Shake- 
speare or  Pinero  or  some  one  like  that,  but  when  I  used 
to  play  in  it  I  remember  I  was  told  it  was  an  adaptation 
from  a  novel  by  a  woman." 

"What  part  did  you  play  in  it?"  Adam  asked. 

"The  heavy  part,"  Mr.  Sackville  said  apologetically;  "I 
always  played  gentlemanly  heavies  in  those  days,"  and  on 


ioo  IN  LONDON 

Adam  asking  the  nature  of  a  gentlemanly  heavy,  he  went 
on:  "Aristocratic  seducers,  you  know.  In  East  Lynne  I 
was  Sir  Francis  Levison,  the  baronet  who  ruins  Lady 
Isabel  Carlyle;  I  never  liked  doing  it,  for  of  course  the 
man  is  not  really  a  gentleman,  also  I  had  to  wear  a  crepe 
hair  mustache,  which  spoils  the  expression  of  one's  face. 
Now  in  What  Rot!  it's  such  a  relief  to  play  a  gentleman 
who  really  is  one,  besides  being  clean-shaven.  Lord  Algy 
is  really  a  delightful  part,  you  have  the  sympathy  of  the 
audience  right  through.  I  always  feel  when  I  play  it  that 
they  really  want  me  to  catch  Lady  Lucina  and  are  always 
afraid  that  she  may  escape  me  in  the  end.  It's  so  jolly 
to  play  a  determined  fellow  who  is  at  the  same  time  gentle 
and  never  insists  on  his  rights,  and  it's  so  dramatic  at  the 
end  of  every  act  to  be  able  to  say  after  each  disappoint- 
ment: 'Love  will  find  out  a  way.'  Mind  you,  I  don't  like 
the  bit  at  the  end  where  they  realize  the  poster,  but  Oswald 
would  have  it  so." 

"You  mean,"  said  Adam,  "where  Lord  Algy  puts  on 
Lady  Lucina's  nightdress?" 

Mr.  Sackville  nodded.  "Yes,  I  always  feel  that's  coarse. 
But  then  it's  so  cleverly  led  up  to  by  her  putting  on  his 
pyjamas,  not  to  say  his  tall  hat,  that  I  think  in  the  drama, 
if  I  may  call  it  so,  most  audiences  overlook  the  suggestion 
of  indelicacy.  If  I  couldn't  persuade  myself  of  that  I 
really  couldn't  bring  myself  to  play  the  part." 

Said  Adam:  "I  don't  like  that  business  of  undressing 
her  as  the  curtain  is  coming  down." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Mr.  Sackville  protested.  "It's  an 
extraordinarily  ingenious  curtain;  sentimental  from  one 
point  of  view  and  at  the  same  time  cleanly  funny.  I  never 
knew  an  audience  yet  that  didn't  laugh  when  he  came  to 
the  seventh  pair  of  undies,  and  as  I  know  for  sure  that  she 
wears  at  least  twelve,  I  never  feel  there's  anything  really 
risky  in  it." 


SUCCESS  loi 

"Don't  you?"  said  Adam,  and  added:  "I'd  rather  play 
Ned  Burke  than  Lord  Algy." 

"There's  no  doubt  that  Ned  is  a  topping  part,"  Mr. 
Sackville  said  cheerily,  "and  I  prophesy  that  you're  going 
to  have  a  topping  success  in  it." 

For  once  a  prophecy  came  true  and  Adam's  seventeenth 
birthday  was  marked  by  a  successful  first  appearance  such 
as  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  not  one  actor  in  twenty  thou- 
sand. He  himself  was  unprepared  for  and  puzzled  by  it, 
knowing  that  he  was  not  even  playing  the  part  as  well 
as  he  had  rehearsed  it,  and  conscious  of  all  sorts  of  diffi- 
culties arising  from  his  inexperience.  But  from  first  to 
last  his  scenes,  such  as  they  were,  went  well,  and  even 
when  he  dried  up  in  his  one  important  speech  the  audience 
applauded  sympathetically. 

Mr.  Sackville  greeted  him  with  enthusiasm  at  the  end. 
"What  did  I  say?"  he  raised  his  gentle  voice  in  triumph 
to  inquire:  "I  told  you  you  would  run  away  from  us  all," 
he  hesitated,  and  added  chivalrously,  "except,  of  course, 
that  exquisite  performer,  Miss  Dartmouth  .  .  .  and  you've 
done  it!" 

Adam  tried  not  to  pant  with  emotion  as  he  burbled, 
"Was  I  really  very  good?" 

He  was  disappointed  to  hear  Mr.  Sackville  answer  in  a 
more  judicial  tone:  "Well,  no,  I'd  hardly  say  as  a  question 
of  technique  that  you  were  as  good  even  as  I  was  when  I 
played  it.  But  how  could  you  be  without  experience !  That 
will  come.  .  .  .  The  point  is  that  instinctively  you  know 
how  to  get  on  good  terms  with  your  audience.  If  an 
actor  can  do  that,  his  career  is  safe.  But  mind  you,  Mr. 
Quinn,  to  get  on  with  your  audience  means  that  you  can 
make  your  living,  but  it  doesn't  mean  that  you're  an  artist 
.  .  .  though  I  hope  you'll  work  at  your  art  until  you  be- 
come one.  .  .  ." 

But  Adam  was  not  listening.     In  the  excitement  of  the 


io2  IN  LONDON 

moment  he  wanted  to  open  his  heart.  .  .  .  "Look  here, 
Mr.  Sackville,"  he  blurted,  "my  name  is  not  Quinn,  not  my 
real  name." 

"Few  men  use  their  real  names  on  the  stage,"  Mr.  Sack- 
ville answered:  "Though  it's  more  usual  now  than  when 
I  went  on  the  stage.  .  .  .  May  I  ask  what  you  real  name 
is?" 

Adam's  cheeks  were  already  scarlet  from  the  hot  water 
with  which  he  had  removed  such  vestiges  of  grease-paint 
as  his  cocoa-butter  had  failed  to  dislodge;  so  he  had  not 
the  appearance  of  blushing  as  he  said  "I  don't  know."  .  .  . 
He  added  defiantly,  as  answer  to  the  other's  look  of  aston- 
ishment: "I'm  a  bastard." 

Mr.  Sackville's  face  fell,  and  Adam  imagined  he  re- 
coiled with  horror.  But  in  a  second  his  kindly  visage  wore 
its  most  genial  smile  as  he  said  heartily:  "How  perfectly 
charming !  .  .  .  and  how  splendid  of  you !  .  .  .  you  must 
tell  me  some  day  how  it  happened.  .  .  .  Life  is  so  full  of 
romance.  ...  I  always  think  of  good  old  Oscar  Wilde's 
Importance  of  Being  Earnest.  .  .  .  Glorious  fellow,  Oscar 
Wilde  .  .  .  very  tragic  that  he  should  have  died.  .  .  .  And 
so  you  call  yourself  Quinn?  .  .  .  Was  that  your  father's 
name,  I  mean  your  dear  mother's?" 

"My  mother's  name,"  Adam  answered  determinedly, 
"was  Smith  .  .  .  her  husband's  name  was  Macfadden." 

Mr.  Sackville  glowed  with  interest:  "Now  I  do  call  that 
a  delightful  coincidence,"  he  declared.  "My  mother's  name 
was  Macfadden  and  her  husband  was  called  Smith.  .  .  . 
He  was  my  father,  you  understand."  His  tone  was  apolo- 
getic. 

"Then  where  did  Mr.  Sackville  come  in?"  Adam  asked 
incautiously,  but  without  offending  his  friend. 

"Sackville,"  he  replied,  "is  pure  fancy.  .  .  .  Like  Quinn, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Or  is  Quinn  perhaps  a  family  name?" 

Jt  was  on  the  tip  of  Adam's  tongue  to  tell  Mr.  Sackville 


SUCCESS  103 

about  his  grandfather,  the  Baronet,  but  when  it  came  to 
the  point  he  hesitated.  That  would  entail  an  explanation 
about  the  Marchesa  that  he  deemed  unchivalrous.  .  .  . 
And  after  all  could  he  be  sure  that  she  really  was  his 
grandmother?  How  ridiculous  it  would  be  if  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  threw  cold  water  on  the  suggestion.  .  .  .  Not  that 
Mr.  Sackville  would  do  anything  so  ungentlemanly  and  un- 
kind. He  ended  by  telling  Mr.  Sackville  that  it  was  Mr. 
Macarthy  who  suggested  that  he  should  call  himself  Quinn. 

"Well,"  Mr.  Sackville  said,  "Quinn  was  a  famous  stage 
name  in  the  eighteenth  century,  second  only  to  Garrick's. 
Perhaps  in  the  twentieth  you'll  make  it  second  to  none." 

And  this  time  Adam  quite  visibly  blushed. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
JANE  NIGHTINGALE 

IT  was  on  the  Saturday  that  Adam  made  his  first  unfor- 
gettable success.  On  the  Sunday  he  rested,  having  lain 
awake  most  of  the  night,  feverishly  playing  his  part  to  the 
bedclothes.  They  were  less  appreciative  than  the  Bank 
Holiday  audience  at  the  Chatsworth  Theater.  It  was  an 
uncommonly  hot  night  for  April,  and  he  awoke  from  what 
slumber  he  was  allowed  with  doubts  as  to  any  success  be- 
ing worth  the  loss  of  an  hour's  sleep.  Presently  Mr.  Sack- 
ville,  looking  neat  and  incredibly  youthful  in  a  sort  of 
marine  costume  suggesting  a  naval  officer  in  mufti,  ap- 
peared with  the  London  papers. 

"The  revival  is  no  end  of  a  success,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
you'd  like  to  know.  That  means  we  shall  be  a  success 
too." 

In  his  interest  in  his  own  performance,  Adam  had  quite 
forgotten  that  the  real  What  Rot!  was  being  done  in  Lon- 
don and  their  poor  little  show  was  a  mere  country  cousin. 
And  even  Mr.  Sackville's  pleasant  smile  was  a  trifle  less 
pleasant  as  he  read  out  the  opinion  of  the  Swiday  Times 
that  Mr.  Onsin  was  quite  inimitable  in  the  part  of  Lord 
Algy,  and  furthermore  that  Miss  Woodbine  Blake's  Ned 
Burke  was  a  lesson  to  older  players  in  stage  technique. 
Never  had  the  part  been  played  so  naturally  and  yet  so 
surely  with  regard  to  stage  effect.  .  .  .  Adam  understood 
his  friend  to  be  of  opinion  that  the  critic  of  this  journal 
was  a  damned  something  or  other,  and  gathered  that  Mr. 
Sackville  was  moved.  But  he  soon  recovered  that  seemly 
cheerfulness  which  made  him  so  agreeable  a  companion 
and  one  so  valuable  for  a  moody  and  impressionable  young 

104 


JANE  NIGHTINGALE  105 

artist;  for  by  this  time  Adam  had  discovered  that  he  really 
was  an  artist  by  desire  if  hardly  by  accomplishment.  He 
suggested  that  after  breakfast  they  should  climb  Beachy 
Head.  Adam,  feeling  that  he  could  scale  Parnassus, 
agreed. 

As  they  turned  from  the  street  where  they  modestly 
lodged  and  faced  westward  along  the  front,  Adam  re- 
called his  first  experience  of  the  sea  at  Bray.  He  deemed 
Eastbourne  to  be  an  incredibly  luxurious  reconstruction  of 
that  attractively  situated  but  not  imposing  watering-place. 
And  to  his  brain,  this  sunny  yet  misty  morning  not  too 
clear,  Beachy  Head  was  little  different  from  Bray  Head. 
He  remembered,  however,  that  it  was  of  greater  historic 
fame.  When  they  were  so  far  up  it  as  Mr.  Sackville  felt 
inclined  to  go,  being  a  little  abashed  by  the  multitudes  of 
convalescent  soldiers  in  butcher's  blue  who  jeered  at  his 
attire  or  apostrophized  his  suspect  conscience,  Adam  asked 
suddenly:  "It  was  somewhere  off  here,  wasn't  it,  that  the 
French  fleet  beat  the  English  and  Dutch?" 

Mr.  Sackville  let  fall  a  look  of  pained  disapproval.  "The 
French  beat  the  English  and  Dutch?"  He  turned  over  the 
words  as  if  analyzing  some  secret  meaning  in  them.  "You 
mean  perhaps  that  We  beat  the  French  and  Dutch?" 

"I  never  heard  of  your  doing  that,"  Adam  rejoined 
sturdily:  "Though  I'll  not  say  it  wasn't  done.  It  seems 
to  me  that  every  one  beats  every  one  else  in  turn  if  you 
leave  it  to  the  end  of  time." 

"There  may  be  something  in  that,"  Mr.  Sackville  ad- 
mitted, "but  I  don't  believe  in  any  navy  beating  ours." 

"What  about  the  Dutch  in  the  Medway?"  Adam  asked. 

Mr.  Sackville  smiled  in  gentlemanly  triumph.  "Nelson 
saw  to  it  that  they  didn't  remain  in  the  Medway  long." 

"He  had  long  sight,"  said  Adam,  "to  see  what  happened 
a  hundred  years  before  he  was  born." 

Mr.  Sackville,  not  quite  sneeringly,  but  just  a  little  super- 


106  IN  LONDON 

ciliously  replied:  "Did  I  say  Nelson?  You  might  have 
understood  that  I  meant  Drake." 

"Try  Blake,"  Adam  suggested.  "He  might  have  done 
it  if  he'd  lived  a  little  longer." 

Mr.  Sackville  made  a  movement  that  was  almost  sug- 
gestive of  impatience.  "I  do  not  profess  to  be  a  scholar," 
he  said.  "But  I  think,  my  wise  young  Irish  friend,  that 
you  will  admit  the  Dutch  did  not  remain  in  the  Medway 
long." 

"They  remained  long  enough  to  burn  your  best  battle- 
ships," Adam  told  him. 

This  time  the  actor's  face  really  fell,  and  he  answered 
simply:  "They  never  told  me  that  at  school.  I  thought  it 
was  just  a  tip-and-go  business  like  the  German  raids  on 
the  north-east  coast.  I  didn't  support  there  was  anything 
really  in  it.  I'm  not  a  Jingo,  I'm  sure,  but  the  English 
have  always  won  in  the  end,  haven't  they?  Muddled 
through,  you  know,  if  you  like  to  put  it  in  that  way." 

Adam  admitted  himself  insufficiently  equipped  in  his- 
toric lore  to  say  whether  the  English  had  won  in  the  end 
or  not.  He  added:  "Hastings  is  just  round  the  corner 
from  here,  isn't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Sackville  said  it  was  not  far  away,  and  waved  his 
hand  to  the  east  and  to  the  west  with  a  slight  swerving 
to  north  and  south.  It  was  an  effective  though  not  in- 
forming gesture;  he  had  the  appearance  of  knowing  where 
it  was  without  conviction  as  to  the  propriety  of  divulging 
the  secret.  He  mentioned  that  it  was  on  the  same  railway 
system,  and  went  on  to  inquire  with  something  like  defer- 
ence whether  Adam  thought  there  was  any  chance  of  the 
Germans  constructing  enough  Zeppelins  to  conquer  Eng- 
land from  the  air.  He  was  of  opinion  that  Zeppelins  and 
poison  gas  ought  not  to  be  allowed. 

Adam  said  he  knew  nothing  about  the  possibilities  of 
Zeppelins,  and  that  no  sort  of  warfare  ought  to  be  allowed. 


JANE  NIGHTINGALE  107, 

"Oh,  come!"  Mr.  Sackville  cried,  "you're  a  downright 
little  Philistine!  Would  you  do  away  with  such  things  as 
the  'Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade'  and  'On  Countrymen, 
unto  the  walls  once  more,'  and  'Fight  on!  fight  on!'  said 
Sir  Richard  Grenville?  I  hate  cruelty  as  much  as  any- 
thing, and  I'm  sure  that  even  if  I  were  of  a  fighting  age 
my  heart  and  digestion  would  make  me  no  use  in  the 
trenches,  but  I  do  think  war  is  a  great  and  noble  thing 
for  young  fellows  whose  constitutions  are  equal  to  rough- 
ing it.  I  sometimes  think  it  fortunate  that  I  have  no 
family  to  ask  me  what  I  did  in  the  Great  War.  Not  that 
I  am  ashamed  of  what  I  do,  by  any  means,  but  young 
people  don't  understand  what  a  great  service  the  actor  does 
his  country  by  keeping  people  cheered  up  in  moments  of 
depression." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Adam  returned,  "that  no  one  I've  seen 
in  London  was  depressed,  except  when  there  was  an  alarm 
of  an  air-raid." 

•"You've  never  seen  a  real  air-raid,  perhaps?"  Mr.  Sack- 
ville pointed  out.  "You'll  find  it  most  depressing  when  it 
comes." 

Adam's  mind  went  off  at  a  tangent.  "Did  you  say  you 
had  no  family?  I  thought  you  were  married."  He  won- 
dered to  himself  why  he  thought  this. 

Mr.  Sackville  shook  his  head  and  sighed,  looking  away 
sentimentally  towards  the  horizon.  "The  only  women  I 
ever  loved,"  he  said  gently  .  .  .  Adam  waited  for  him  to 
say  more  but  he  appeared  to  regard  the  sentence  as  com- 
plete. 

His  finely  woebegone  expression  thrilled  his  young 
friend,  who  murmured  the  surmise  that  the  so  exclusively 
honored  lady  was  dead. 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Mr.  Sackville  hoarsely. 

Adam  delved  in  his  experience  for  something  worse 
than  that  and  ventured:  "She's  not  a  nun?" 


io8  IN  LONDON 

"A  nun!"  Mr.  Sackville  echoed  with  a  horrorstricken 
tone,  betraying  his  descent  from  the  evangelical  branch  of 
the  Smith  family.  "No,  not  that.  She  had  her  hour  of 
temptation.  .  .  .  The  Cowley  sisters  .  .  .  but  thank  God 
she  resisted  the  fascination  of  the  veil.  Though  I  have 
often  thought  how  magnificently  it  would  have  become  her. 
I  can  see  her,"  his  voice  rose  lyrically,  "I  can  see  her  as 
Roxane  in  the  last  act  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac"  He  added 
moodily:  "I  have  never  played  Cyrano.  As  poor  Lewis 
Waller,  whose  funeral  I  had  recently  the  privilege  to  at- 
tend, used  to  say:  'It  was  a  pity  that  no  romantic  actor 
ever  played  Cyrano.'"  He  looked  at  his  watch:  "I  think 
we  had  better  be  turning  homewards." 

"But,"  said  Adam,  falling  into  step  beside  him, 
"you  haven't  told  me  what  become  of  her.  Did  she  go 
mad?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Sackville  promptly.  "She  went  no  such 
thing.  It  is  I,  I  who  have  gone  mad  on  account  of  Penel- 
ope Nightingale." 

"Penelope  Nightingale,"  Adam  repeated.  "Is  that  her 
name  ?" 

"That  is  not  altogether  her  name,  not  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,"  Mr.  Sackville  said.  "She  calls  herself  Jane  Night- 
ingale, but  I  prefer  to  think  of  her  as  Penelope." 

"Why?"  Adam  asked  him  point  blank. 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Sackville.  "Why,  indeed,"  and  lifting 
his  hat  he  ran  his  fine  hand  through  his  beautiful  hair  as 
if  that  were  an  answer  to  the  question. 

"I  still  don't  know  what  happened  to  her,"  Adam  said. 
"She  wasn't  seduced,  was  she?" 

Mr.  Sackville  frowned.  "Do  not  be  coarse,"  he  said. 
"You  are  speaking  of  a  lady." 

"But  wasn't  the  lady  in  East  Lynne  seduced?"  Adam 
asked. 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,"  Mr.  Sackville 


JANE  NIGHTINGALE  109 

propounded.  "When  you're  older  you  will  understand  the 
indelicacy  of  the  suggestion." 

This  criticism  threw  Adam  into  a  somewhat  sulky  silence 
which  perhaps  disappointed  Mr.  Sackville;  for  he  pres- 
ently volunteered  the  information  that  Miss  Nightingale 
had  broken  his  heart.  As  Adam  still  kept  pouted  lips  he 
went  on:  "You  would  ask  me  how,  and  I  will  tell  you. 
She  loves  another  who  is  as  unworthy  of  her  as,"  he 
looked  to  the  heavens  for  inspiration  which  came  in  this 
form,  "as  Mr.  Brown  was  of  Queen  Victoria." 

"What  Mr.  Brown?"  Adam  asked.  "Mr.  Brown  whose 
soul  goes  marching  on?" 

If  Mr.  Sackville  heard  this  question,  he  was  not,  as  he 
would  modestly  say,  enough  of  a  scholar  to  answer  it.  And 
while  Adam  tramped  on,  humming  "Glory,  glory  Alleluja," 
and  trying  to  imagine  a  romance  between  his  vague  con- 
ception of  Queen  Victoria  and  yet  vaguer  notion  of  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Brown  of  Harper's  Ferry,  Mr.  Sackville 
reverted  to  the  more  congenial  subject  of  his  own  romance. 
"I  would  like  you  to  see  her  and  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  her,"  said  he. 

"I  know  her  picture  well,"  said  Adam,  "and  there's  a 
queer  old  statue  of  her  they  put  up  when  I  was  a  lad  in 
Kildare  Street." 

Mr.  Sackville  shook  his  head  wistfully.  "I  think  there 
is  some  mistake,"  said  he.  "There  is  a  statue  of  a  Miss 
Nightingale  in  Waterloo  Place,  but  that  is  not  my  Miss 
Nightingale." 

"Oh!"  Adam  blurted,  "I  was  thinking  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria." 

Mr.  Sackvjlle's  tone  stiffened.  "If  you  are  not  inter- 
ested in  the  subject  of  my  conversation,  let  us  drop  it." 

Said  Adam:  "You  said  Queen  Victoria." 

The  actor  pointed  out  with  dignity  that  the  mention  of 
her  penultimate  Majesty  was  subsidiary  to  the  tragic  story 


i  io  IN  LONDON 

of  his  relations  with  Miss  Penelope  or  Jane  Nightingale. 
"Do  you  wish  me  to  speak  more  of  this  or  not  ?"  he  asked. 

And  Adam,  who  was  acquiring  the  current  English 
idiom,  replied:  "Carry  on,  old  bean." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "that  you  sometimes  for- 
get the  difference  in  our  ages." 

Adam,  awakening  suddenly  to  the  need  for  tact,  said: 
"You  do  look  so  jolly  young,  you  know,  and  it's  all  the 
more  wonderful  for  a  man  who  has  had  such  a,"  he  re- 
called a  word  which  had  pleased  him  in  the  papers  he  had 
sold  in  his  infancy,  "such  a  tragic  romance  in  his  life." 

His  friend  was  mollified.  "Tragic  romance  is  the  very 
word  for  it.  How  romantic  and  how  tragic  you  will  best 
understand  when  you  see  her.  ...  If  you  wish  to  see 
her." 

"You  bet  your  boots,"  said  Adam  heartily,  "I  should 
just  love  to  see  her." 

"Then  you  shall  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  again  look- 
ing at  his  watch,  "for  on  our  way  back,  if  I  have  timed 
myself  correctly,  we  should  meet  her  coming  out  of 
church." 

"Righto!"  said  Adam.  "I  hope  you'll  introduce  me  to 
her." 

"I  cannot  promise  that,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "without 
first  asking  her  permission." 

"Oh!"  said  Adam,  finding  this  rather  pusillanimous  of 
Mr.  Sackville :  but  it  whetted  his  curiosity.  "Who  did  you 
say  it  was  she  was  in  love  with?" 

Mr.  Sackville  frowned.  "I  did  not  say  with  whom  she 
was  in  love,"  said  he,  "and  I  do  not  feel  that  without  some 
risk  of  a  breach  of  confidence  I  could  tell  you  his  name, 
but  to  give  you  some  indication  of  the  nature  of  the  man, 
I  will  tell  you  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  men  in 
£he  country,  and  has  written  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
j>lays." 


JANE  NIGHTINGALE  in 

"Oh!"  Adam  snapped  promptly,  "I  guess  Bernard 
Shaw." 

Mr.  Sackville  turned  a  severe  face  upon  him.  "Surely 
you  are  aware  that  Mr.  Shaw  is  a  married  man.  If  you 
think  that  Miss  Nightingale  would  allow  herself  to  fall 
in  love  with  a  married  man,  you  are  mistaken." 

"But  you  did  say  he  was  unworthy  of  her,"  Adam  re- 
minded him,  and  repeated  to  himself  again,  "One  of  the 
most  brilliant  men  in  the  country  and  has  written  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  plays.  .  .  .  One  of  the  most  brilliant 
plays."  He  looked  a  little  sheepishly  at  Mr.  Sackville, 
saying  in  a  low  voice:  "I  suppose  Mr.  and  Mr.  Onsin  are 
legally  married?" 

"For  all  I  know  to  the  contrary  they  may  be,"  said  Mr. 
Sackville,  "but  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why,"  said  Adam,  "you  said  he  was  the  author  of  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  plays  of  the  time  and  I  guessed  that 
you  might  mean  What  Rot!" 

"My  God!"  said  Mr.  Sackville.  "Not  another  word. 
You  must  never  mention  this  to  any  one." 

"Righto!"  said  Adam  cheerily,  without  having  any  idea 
what  it  was  he  was  not  to  mention.  His  interest  in  Mr. 
Sackville's  Dulcinea  was  sadly  diminished  by  the  infor- 
mation that  she  had  lost  her  heart  to  the  manager  of  the 
Grand  Theater  and  reputed  author  of  What  Rot!  but  he 
felt  it  proper  to  express  a  languid  hope  that  he  might  have 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  her  or  at  least  to  look  upon  her 
as  she  came  out  of  church. 

This  good  fortune  was  his:  as  he  stayed  his  companion 
that  he  might  read  the  poster  announcing  a  play  called 
How  Dublin  Does  It,  apparently  staged  at  some  minor 
Eastbourne  place  of  entertainment,  and  said:  "It's  a  queer 
thing,  but  I  saw  that  piece  in  Dublin  last  January."  .  .  . 
Mr.  Sackville  with  a  dramatic  gesture  gripped  his  arm. 

"She's  coming!"  he  announced  in  a  sort  of  shouted  whis- 


ii2  IN  LONDON 

per,  and  lifting  his  hat,  dropped  it  by  his  side,  standing 
bareheaded  and  reverential  in  such  fashion  as  he  would 
have  followed  had  his  place  in  time  suffered  him  to  attend 
the  funeral  rites  of  Joan  of  Arc  or  Sarah  Siddons. 

Adam,  turning  from  the  poster  with  its  suggestion  of 
half-wakened  home-sickness,  beheld  approach  two  uni- 
formed ladies.  Both  in  their  way  were  beautiful,  but  he 
concentrated  his  glance  on  the  assured  choice  of  his  friend. 
She  was  tall,  rather  buxom  yet  lithe,  with  something  of  the 
brilliancy  of  Barbara  Burns,  but  happier  looking  and  per- 
haps more  dashing,  with  a  downright  stride  from  the  hips 
characteristic  of  the  Englishwoman  whom  war  has  brought 
into  her  own.  Yet  he  had  a  suspicion  that  somewhere  in 
her  allure  there  lurked  a  flavor  of  the  vulgar  ...  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  possibility  of  her  falling  in  love  with  such 
a  mountebank  as  Oswald  Onsin.  She  passed  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  with  no  more  notice  than  if  he  had  been  an  itinerant 
minstrel  holding  out  his  hat  for  undeserved  alms.  More 
gracious  was  the  mien  of  her  companion,  an  elderly  lady, 
as  Adam  conceived,  but  well  preserved  and  singularly  at- 
tractive, with  her  intellectual,  kindly  face  and  shapely,  fine 
drawn  features,  and  exquisitely  large  blue  eyes,  full  of  a 
cheerful  sadness,  as  if  she  had  suffered  worse  than  most 
women  but  sang  no  song  about  it. 

"Well,"  Mr.  Sackville  said  at  length:  "Now  that  you 
have  seen  Miss  Nightingale,  you  perhaps  understand  all 
that  she  means  to  me." 

"I'm  afraid,"  Adam  answered  with  conscious  superi- 
ority, "I  was  more  interested  in  the  old  lady." 

"What  old  lady?"  Mr.  Sackville  sternly  demanded:  "If 
you  mean  the  elder  of  the  two  ladies  we  have  just  passed, 
I  need  hardly  say  that  she  was  Miss  Nightingale." 

Adam's  mouth  dropped  open  in  callow  astonishment: 
"Go  on!"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 
DUBLIN  DOES  IT 

AFTER  the  meeting  with  the  two  ladies  in  uniform,  Adam 
walked  back  beside  his  histrionic  mentor,  bewildered  into 
silence.  His  respect  for  Mr.  Sackville,  now  that  he  knew 
he  preferred  the  elder  to  the  younger  beauty,  had  leaped 
heavenwards:  but  his  surprise  at  Mr.  Sackville's  good 
taste  was  obliterated  by  his  astoundment  at  Miss  Nightin- 
gale's madness.  .  .  .  How  could  such  a  woman  be  in  love 
with  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin?  .  .  .  He  would  have  liked  to 
ask  his  companion  this,  but  he  felt  that  the  question  had  a 
delicate  implication  which  were  better  avoided.  After 
luncheon,  having  drunk  very  nearly  a  pint  of  cider,  he  said 
cheerily  to  his  friend:  "I'm  sure  you  could  cut  him  out." 
Mr.  Sackville  brightened  in  what  Adam  found  a  very 
flattering  manner,  saying  eagerly,  though  still  in  a  minor 
key :  "I'm  sure  if  you  who  know  him  so  well  think  that !" 
This  again  he  treated  as  a  sentence,  and  Adam  was  too 
pleased  by  the  suggestion  that  he  knew  the  great,  if  some- 
what underbred  actor,  very  well,  that  he  failed  to  notice 
that  it  was  merely  a  subjunctive  clause.  He  repeated 
his  assertion  with  even  greater  confidence,  and  Mr.  Sack- 
ville said :  "I  wish,"  and  treated  that  again  as  yet  another 
sentence.  Then  they  both  fell  asleep,  and  nothing  much 
more  happened  that  Sunday  except  that  Adam  wrote  to 
Mr.  Macarthy,  who  was  still  at  Jermyn  Street,  that  his 
first  appearance  had  been  declared  not  half  bad,  that  Mr. 
Sackville  continued  to  be  very  kind  to  him  and  had  pointed 
out  to  him  a  very  beautiful  lady  called  Penelope  or  Jane 
Nightingale,  with  whom  he,  Mr.  Sackville,  was  in  love, 


ii4!  IN  LONDON 

but  she,  Miss  P.  or  J.  Nightingale,  preferred  Mr.  Onsin, 
of  all  people,  and  what  did  Mr.  Macarthy  think  about  it? 

By  the  Tuesday  morning  Adam  had  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Macarthy  thanking  him  for  his,  congratulating  him  upon 
his  success,  cautioning  him  not  to  be  betrayed  by  it  into 
vanity,  and  admonishing  him  that  whatever  publicity  Mr. 
Sackville  as  an  artist  might  wish  to  give  his  passion  for 
Miss  Nightingale,  it  would  be  wise  to  assume  that  Miss 
Nightingale's  for  Mr.  Onsin  was  a  secret  to  be  locked  in 
the  bosom.  "From  your  description  of  her,"  wrote  Mr. 
Macarthy,  "I  take  it  that  the  lady  would  be  oldish  for 
you/' 

But  on  that  Tuesday  Adam  was  not  thinking  of  Miss 
Nightingale,  and  the  interests  of  Mr.  Sackville's  love  af- 
fairs had  paled  before  a  fierier  concernment.  On  the 
Easter  Monday  afternoon  he  had  repeated  his  success  of 
the  Saturday,  and  Mr.  Sackville  and  he,  hastening  to  their 
lodgings  to  snatch  a  meal  before  they  rang  up  again  at 
night,  beheld  a  bill-sticker,  or  one  suddenly  thrust  into  the 
office  of  bill-sticker,  employed  in  a  fashion  not  customary 
on  public  holidays.  He  was  feverishly  plastering  over  the 
announcements  of  the  entertainment  called :  How  Dublin 
Does  It.  Mr.  Sackville  with  professional  concern  asked 
him  his  reason  for  this,  expressing  the  hope  that  no  one 
had  fallen  ill.  The  man  preserving  a  sulky  silence,  Mr. 
Sackville  said  directly :  "Why  are  they  withdrawing  How 
Dublin  Does  It?" 

And  the  man,  splashing  paste  over  Mr.  Sackville,  an- 
swered after  the  manner'  of  one  called  upon  unjustly  to 
work  when  he  would  be  idle,  said,  "I  am  a  Bulgarian  if 
Dublin  hasn't  gone  and  done  it."  And  between  the  news- 
papers and  gossip,  Adam  played  Ned  Burke  that  night 
knowing  that  his  grandmother  with  her  Infant  Druids, 
assisted  by  Mr.  Porphyro  Pink  and  a  few  hundred  grown 
men,  were  striving  to  war  down  that  hydra-headed  mon- 


DUBLIN  DOES  IT  115 

ster,  the  British  Empire,  in  the  burning  streets  of  his 
native  city.  He  played  purely  mechanically,  barely  aware 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  greater  success  than  ever. 

There  followed  days  of  crazy  tragi-comedy.  Here  was 
he  employed  in  amusing  Englishmen  with  his  acting  in  an 
all  but  base  piece  of  silliness,  while  the  brothers  of  these 
Englishmen  were  burning  and  battering  down  the  homes 
of  his  friends  and  doing  to  death  under  the  most  despicable 
of  the  arbitrary  laws  of  the  tyrant  those  friends  themselves. 
When  he  read  of  the  judicial  murder  of  James  Connolly, 
propped  up  all  maimed  and  broken  in  Kilmainham  prison 
yard  to  face  the  firing  party,  he  wrote  from  Portsmouth 
to  Mr.  Macarthy,  asking  if  he  might  throw  up  his  part 
and  shake  the  dust  of  England  from  his  shoes.  But  Mr. 
Macarthy,  detained  in  London,  replied  temperately  that  he 
must  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  "Don't  abuse  Englishmen," 
he  wrote,  "they  are  quite  as  good  as  we  are.  The  enemy 
is  the  sullen  brutality  of  mankind.  I  prophesy  a  day  will 
come  in  your  lifetime,  if  not  in  mine,  when  James  Con- 
nolly will  be  publicly  honored  by  Englishmen,  and  Max- 
well relegated  to  the  dustheap  of  oblivion  with  all  the  other 
military  asses,  neither  better  nor  worse  than  he,  who  have 
borne  that  name." 

Adam  at  seventeen  found  it  hard  to  leave  to  Time  the 
duty  of  avenging  foolish  heroes  upon  senseless  bullies  .  .  . 
but  although  he  thought  nothing  of  defying  the  Empire 
.  he  could  not  find  courage  to  fly  in  the  face  of  his  guardian. 
He  knew  that  Mr.  Macarthy's  advice,  if  unpalatable,  was 
sound. 

But  when  the  news  came  through  that  Mr.  O'Meagher 
and  his  two  sons  had  been  slain,  charging  behind  the 
O'Rahilly  up  Moore  Street,  there  was  a  fresh  crisis,  and 
after  the  night's  performance  at  Brighton  Adam  trained 
to  London  to  consult  his  guardian,  still  at  Jermyn  Street. 
It  appeared  that  Patrick  and  Columba  had  both  been  In- 


ii6  IN  LONDON 

fant  Druids,  and  went  into  action  with  old  sword-bay- 
onets or  some  such  form  of  lethal  weapon,  but  their  father, 
a  well-known  pacifist,  had  been  shot  down  in  the  act  of 
shaking  an  umbrella  at  the  British  army.  Adam  pictured 
Josephine's  father  and  brothers  in  red  burial  blent  by 
English  machine-guns,  and  was  for  assaulting  Whitehall 
single-handed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all  iniquity  resided 
there. 

But  Mr.  Macarthy  still  counseled  submission  to  the  logic 
of  fact.  "The  British  Government  is  ruled  by  a  clique 
of  bloody-minded  men,"  he  declared.  "But  their  energies 
are  directed  mainly  to  combating  a  foreign  power  yet 
bloodier-minded  and  incomparably  more  efficient  in  crime 
than  themselves.  When  a  policeman  is  locked  in  a  deadly 
struggle  with  a  homicidal  lunatic  that  is  not  the  moment 
for  trying  to  trip  him  up  on  the  plea  that  he  is  a  drunken 
scoundrel  and  beats  his  wife."  He  added:  "I  knew  too 
little  of  those  plucky  boys  to  judge  whether  their  death 
is  to  be  regarded  as  a  misfortune,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that 
in  their  father's  story  there  was  nothing  that  became  him 
more;  for  his  death  showed  the  sincerity  of  his  attachment 
to  a  cause  which  his  life  tended  to  make  ridiculous." 

Adam  turned  away  to  press  his  forehead  against  a  pane 
of  glass  of  the  window  facing  the  offices  of  the  R.S.P.C.A. 
"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it,"  he  said,  "and  what  about 
Mrs.  O'Meagher  .  .  .?  What  about  Josephine?" 

Mr.  Macarthy 's  tone  hardened.  "If  I  were  you  I  should 
not  worry  about  them,"  he  said.  "They  will  find  consola- 
tion in  the  thought  that  the  poor  lads  had  been  to  Mass 
in  the  morning,  or  wore  rosary  beads  in  their  hats,  and  so 
have  perpetual  light  now  shining  upon  them." 

Adam  smiled  grimly:  "But  Josephine  loved  her  father 
.  .  ."  he  began.  Mr.  Macarthy  cut  him  short. 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

On  reflection  Adam  was  not  sure  that  any  one  had  told 


DUBLIN  DOES  IT  117 

him  so.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  Josephine,  as  a  child, 
had  appeared  attached  to  her  father,  but,  after  all,  less 
so  than  he  to  her.  .  .  .  And  a  girl  who  enters  a  convent 
against  her  father's  wish  can  hardly  be  said  to  love  him. 
Yet  he  did  not  like  to  hear  Mr.  Macarthy  say  with  un- 
wonted severity:  "Josephine  appears  to  me  to  be  as  self- 
ish as  her  mother." 

He  looked  at  his  guardian  in  remonstrance.  "I  should 
never  have  thought  Josephine  was  selfish,  and  surely  Mrs. 
O'Meagher  was  a  very  good  Catholic?" 

"To  be  a  very  good  Catholic,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "in 
the  vulgar  sense  of  the  words,  is  to  be  neither  good  nor 
Catholic  in  the  real  sense.  It  happens  that  I  have  known 
Mrs.  O'Meagher  for  the  greater  part  of  my  life,  and  you 
may  take  it  from  me  that  she  was  a  naturally  good  and 
sweet  woman,  absolutely  worm-eaten  with  superstition  until 
she  had  lost  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong." 

"I  should  never  have  suspected  her  of  that,"  said  Adam. 

"Unfortunately,  she  never  suspects  herself  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Macarthy.  "She  is  probably  this  moment  offering  up 
her  two  sons  as  a  sacrifice  to  that  pet  demon  to  whom  she 
has  already  sacrificed  her  daughter." 

Adam  was  shocked  at  the  vigor  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  de- 
nunciation of  Mrs.  O'Meagher.  "You  wouldn't  say,"  he 
cried,  "that  she  really  wished  her  sons  to  be  killed?" 

It  was  Mr.  Macarthy's  turn  to  smile  savagely. 
"O'Meagher  told  me  himself,"  said  he,  "that  she  prayed 
for  them  to  die  like  this  from  the  moment  she  heard  of 
their  joining  the  Infant  Druids." 

"But  I  thought,"  said  Adam,  "that  she  disapproved  of 
Sinn  Fein  altogether  because  the  Bishop  was  against  it?" 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  what  troubled  her 
was  their  friendship  with  the  Marchesa.  She  thought  they 
would  be  better  dead  than  friends  with  her." 

Even  from  a  point  so  near  to  Josephine,  his  heart's  de- 


ii8  IN  LONDON 

sire  so  hopelessly  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  Church,  Adam's 
mind  easily  wandered.  "And  the  Marchesa?"  he  queried. 
"She  seems  to  have  led  the  righting  in  the  Mountjoy  Ward, 
but  I  can't  make  out  what  became  of  her." 

Mr.  Macarthy's  smile  became  very  mysterious.  "Re- 
member that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Derry- 
down,  and  in  Ireland  the  peerage  is  above  the  law." 

In  protest  Adam  breathed  the  name  of  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  a  fragment  of  whose  coffin  had  been  a  cherished 
relic  in  the  O'Meaghers*  house  at  Sandycove.  But  Mr. 
Macarthy  waived  away  the  pretensions  of  Lord  Edward 
to  be  considered  as  before  the  law.  "Accidentally  shot  by 
an  Englishman,"  he  explained.  "No  Irish  policeman 
would  have  ventured  to  touch  him  even  by  mistake.  Some 
people  think  poor  Casement's  knighthood  might  save  him 
if  he  were  tried  in  Dublin,  so  they've  sent  him  to  London 
to  be  done  to  death  by  his  peers." 

"You  don't  mean  they'll  hang  him  too?"  Adam  cried, 
conjuring  up  a  tall  and  dreamy  figure  he  had  seen  loung- 
ing in  the  Abbey  stalls,  one  he  could  not  associate  with 
violence  in  any  form. 

"Hang  him !"  Mr.  Macarthy  echoed.  "They'd  draw  and 
quarter  him  if  they  were  not  afraid  of  reviving  a  danger- 
ous precedent.  Even  the  Attorney-General  knows  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  dying  too  hard." 

Adam  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  blood  on  the  hands 
that  England  had  given  him  so  hospitably.  He  said  at 
length:  "Anyhow,  they've  let  the  Marchesa  go?" 

"I  don't  know  that  they  have,"  Mr.  Macarthy  assured 
him:  "It's  only  a  guess.  She  may  possibly  have  been 
destroyed  in  the  blowing  up  of  some  building.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  that  there  never  was  a  man  yet  with  greater 
contempt  for  death  than  she.  But  of  course  an  old  lady 
like  that  would  be  fairly  easily  overpowered  when  it  came 
to  the  last  cartridge  and  then  the  wheels  within  wheels 


DUBLIN  DOES  IT  119 

would  begin  to  work  at  once.  .  .  ."  He  glanced  at  the 
clock.  "If  you're  to  act  to-night,  and  of  course  you  must, 
you'll  want  to  catch  the  4.25  from  Victoria.  I'll  drive  you 
down  there  now,  and  on  the  way  we'll  look  in  on  some  one 

I  who  may  be  able  to  say  what  has  become  of  the  Mar- 
chesa." 
From  Jermyn  Street  a  taxi  carried  them,  Adam  agog 
with  curiosity,  down  Regent  Street,  past  the  theater  and 
under  the  Admiralty  arch,  and  past  the  Horse  Guards 
Parade,  and  through  Story's  Gate  into  a  labyrinth  of  wind- 
ing streets  that  he  did  not  know.  They  stopped  at  a  door 
on  which  Adam  read  only  the  number,  which  was  38,  and 
that  being  twice  nineteen  impressed  itself  upon  him.  On 
Mr.  Macarthy's  summons  it  opened  cautiously  and  reluc- 
tantly until  his  figure  was  seen  by  the  janitor,  who  then  at 
once  admitted  him.  Mr.  Macarthy  said  as  a  matter  of 
course:  "Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  is  in?" 

"I'm  not  sure,  Mr.  Macarthy,"  the  janitor  said,  "but 
I'll  just  inquire."  He  disappeared  for  an  instant  and  re- 
turned to  say:  "Captain  O'Hagan-Bathe  asks  if  you'll 
kindly  walk  in." 

They  were  ushered  into  a  large,  old-fashioned  book- 
lined  room  with  great  windows  looking  out  northwards 
on  St.  James's  Park.  In  this  Mr.  or  Captain  O'Hagan- 
Bathe  rose  courteously  to  welcome  them.  He  was  a  big- 
gish man  with  a  smallish  head  and  an  infinitesimal  mus- 
tache of  the  type  worn  by  bucks  in  the  days  of  Nell 
Gwynne's  residence  at  the  other  side  of  the  Park.  He 
wore  an  eyegless  and  khaki,  which  somehow  did  not  appear 
to  Adam  to  be  what  one  might  call  genuine  or  fighting 
khaki.  His  Sam  Browne  belt  shone  with  the  same  bril- 
liant luster  as  his  brown  boots  and  his  eyeglass,  but  al- 
though these  things  were  obviously  spot  new  and  fit  to  go 
anywhere,  he  himself  was  not  intended  by  God  for  the 
firing  line.  It  was  not  that  he  would  have  feared  to  face 


uo  IN  LONDON 

the  onslaught  of  the  Huns,  provided  the  call  came  at  a 
convenient  hour  of  the  day.  For  the  rest,  his  age,  which 
was  older  than  his  manner,  gave  him  a  better  excuse  for 
remaining  at  home  than  did  that  of  the  average  gentleman 
employed  in  Government  Offices. 

To  Mr.  Macarthy  he  was  civility  itself.  "I  was  think- 
ing of  you  this  very  moment,"  said  he.  "I've  just  got 
some  thundering  good  whisky."  He  put  out  his  hand  as 
though  to  grope  in  an  aperture  marked  "Strictly  Confi- 
dential," when  Mr.  Macarthy  smilingly  shook  his  head, 
protesting  that  he  never  drank  it. 

"Sure  I  forgot,"  said  Mr.  or  Captain  O'Hagan-Bathe. 
"Perhaps  our  young  friend  here  .  .  .  ?" 

"Too  young,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  who  had  warned 
Adam  to  keep  his  theatrical  success  to  himself  and  to 
appear  as  juvenile  as  possible. 

"Well,  well,"  said  their  host,  "that  makes  the  more  for 
me,"  and  he  helped  himself,  quite  moderately  for  an  offi- 
cial who  appeared  to  be  head  of  his  department.  "And 
now,  you  spalpeen,  what  is  it  you  want  out  of  me?  Not 
to  get  off  any  more  of  your  damned  lunatic  friends  from 
getting  what  they  asked  for,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  easily,  "I  know  all  that 
has  passed  away  from  the  power  of  decent  men  like  your- 
self to  those  drum-headed  imbeciles  round  the  corner." 

Their  host  nodded  sympathetically.  "B fools,"  he 

agreed,  "but  sure  they'd  great  provocation.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  Connolly's  men  shot  down  unarmed  sol- 
diers." 

"And  you  find  that  a  good  reason,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy, 
"for  soldiers  shooting  down  an  unarmed  Connolly?" 

Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  pursed  his  lips  deprecatingly.  "I 
don't  say  I'd  like  to  do  it  myself,"  said  he.  "But  sure, 
soldiers  are  the  same  all  the  world  over.  You  can't  ex- 
pect them  to  see  farther  than  the  ends  of  their  noses,  and 


DUBLIN  DOES  IT  121 

you  know  Connolly  really  was  quite  outside  the  pale."  He 
indicated  some  papers.  "I  have  convincing  proof  here  that 
the  man  was  what  I'm  told  they  call  a  Syndicalist." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shot  a  glance  at  Adam  and  asked  with 
an  air  of  innocence:  "Now  what  exactly  is  that?" 

Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  snorted.  "How  the  blazes  should 
I  know?  But  I  can  tell  you  it's  something  they  don't 
mean  to  have  in  Ireland  if  Ned  Carson  can  prevent  it,  and 
I'm  told  he  can  count  even  on  that  fellow  Redmond  to 
help  him  out  in  that." 

"It  would  interest  me  to  know  what  the  Irish  Office 
thinks  of  Syndicalism,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said. 

"The  Irish  Office  has  something  better  to  think  about," 
their  host  growled,  with  perhaps  affected  ill-humor. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  at  Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  and  said 
genially:  "Look  here,  old  man,  let's  talk  about  something 
you  are  interested  in.  ...  What  has  become  of  the  Mar- 
chesa?" 

"You  mean  young  Derrydown's  aunt?  That  frantic  old 
idiot?"  Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  said.  "Damned  if  I  know. 
I'd  have  shot  her  out  of  hand  because  she  was  rude  to  my 
mother  thirty  years  ago  at  a  Castle  Ball  just  when  she 
was  beginning  to  go  dotty  after  the  death  of  that  fellow 
Byron-Quinn.  ...  By  the  way,  we've  just  had  a  very  odd 
piece  of  news  in  cipher."  He  glanced  at  Adam,  his  lips 
silently  querying:  "Can  the  boy  be  trusted?"  and  on  Mr. 
Macarthy  nodding,  he  rang  the  bell.  "Have  you  a  copy 
of  that  B.T.  message,  the  last  one  ?"  he  asked  the  attendant 
clerk,  and  when  they  were  alone  again,  holding  the  paper 
in  his  hand,  he  went  on  in  a  low  voice:  "I  needn't  ask 
you  if  you  know  Pleasant  Street,  Dublin,  or  if  you  know 
what  sort  of  a  street  it  was.  I  suppose  there  was  never 
a  Trinity  boy  yet  couldn't  answer  that  question."  Adam 
instinctively  rose  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  across  St. 
James's  Park,  and  standing  there,  there  fell  upon  his  ears 


122  IN  LONDON 

these  words,  uttered  in  tones  which  O'Hagan-Bathe  vaguely 
intended  should  not  reach  him :  "No.  7  was  blown  up  and 
burned  to  the  ground  in  the  small  hours  of  this  morning, 
and  the  firemen  have  recovered  the  body  of  a  man  and 
a  woman.  She  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  keeper  of  the 
house,  she  lived  with  a  fellow  called  O'Toole,  one  of  our 
.  .  ."  the  next  words  were  inaudible,  but  presently  he  heard 
Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  say  in  a  voice  made  loud  with  laugh- 
ter: "And  the  amazing  thing  is,  our  fellow  Newton  in- 
sists that  this  blackguard  O'Toole  was  the  son  of  the  old 
Marchesa  by  that  hare-brained  fellow,  Byron-Quinn !" 

And  in  this  fashion  Adam,  staring  stonily  across  St. 
James's  Park  towards  the  sedate  authority  of  Pall  Mall 
and  the  luxurious  stateliness  of  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
and  that  queer  old  toy-brick  palace  of  St.  James's,  learned 
with  a  mixture  of  shame  and  joy  that  he  was  an  orphan. 

Then  he  heard  Mr.  Macarthy  say:  "Well,  if  you  really 
won't  tell  me  what's  become  of  the  Marchesa,  I  suppose 
you  won't,  and  we'd  better  be  off!"  He  added  as  he  left 
the  room:  "It's  my  conviction,  you  know,  that  you've 
got  her  hidden  away  in  your  chambers  in  Bury  Street." 

Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  shook  his  head  gravely.  "Indeed 
I  have  not,"  said  he,  "I  really  wouldn't  risk  it,  not  even  for 
the  sake  of  young  Derrydown,  though  he's  a  charming 
fellow,  and  we  often  play  billiards  at  the  Carlton."  Tears 
filled  his  eyes,  giving  him  a  momentary  resemblance  to  Mr. 
Sackville  as  he  added  huskily:  "Apart  from  that  no  gen- 
tleman can  forgive  an  insult  to  his  mother." 

"It  could  not  have  been  a  serious  insult,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
said. 

Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  blazed  with  indignation.  "Serious," 
he  snapped,  "scurrilous  to  the  last  degree.  She  said  she 
was  a  Plymouth  Brother.  My  dear  mother,  who  was  niece 
of  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Brownstown !  Thank  God  we've 
been  Church  of  Ireland  on  both  sides  ever  since  penal 


DUBLIN  DOES  IT  123 

times.  And  the  thing  was  all  the  more  impertinent  com- 
ing from  a  woman  whose  own  mother  kept  a  black  Scrip- 
ture Reader." 

Asked  Macarthy,  smiling:  "What  did  she  keep  him 
for?" 

"You're  not  the  first  to  ask  that,"  said  Mr.  O'Hagan- 
Bathe,  "but  I  never  heard  any  answer."  He  was  grave 
again:  "But  if  Daphne  Page  thinks  I've  forgotten  her 
impudence  to  my  mother,  she'll  find  herself  mistaken." 

And  then  they  were  back  in  their  taxi  with  no  word 
spoken  till  they  reached  Victoria  and  Mr.  Macarthy  put 
his  young  friend  in  the  train.  "All  the  world's  a  stage," 
said  he,  "and  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players. 
Hackneyed  but  true.  Play  your  part  as  well  as  you  can, 
Adam,  that's  the  best  we  can  do  with  life."  A  handshake 
and  Adam  was  alone,  returning  to  Brighton  to  play  his 
part  as  well  as  he  could. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 
MR.  SACKVILLE  BEHAVES  AS  A  GENTLEMAN 

ADAM,  speeding  back  to  Brighton  after  his  interview  with 
his  guardian,  slept  in  the  train,  huddled  up  between  a 
soldier  and  a  sailor.  It  was  his  first  slumber  since  the 
news  of  Mr.  O'Meagher's  death  and  Patrick  and  Colum- 
ba's  had  filled  his  horrified  eyes.  Compared  with  the 
pathos  of  that  tragedy  the  annihilation  of  his  own  father 
and  mother  seemed  but  a  grizzly  jest.  .  .  .  He  tried  to 
be  sorry  for  his  mother,  but  failed.  As  for  Mr.  O'Toole, 
their  relationship  had  always  seemed  as  incredible  as  that 
between  himself  and  his  putative  father,  the  late  Malachy 
Macfadden,  the  tailor.  All  his  filial  emotion,  and  he  was 
not  wanting  in  it,  went  out  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  Herr  Behre, 
and  in  a  lesser  degree,  to  Mr.  O'Meagher:  with  the  last- 
named  dead  and  Herr  Behre  in  America,  it  seemed  that 
all  must  go  to  Mr.  Macarthy.  That  night,  for  once,  ow- 
ing to  his  weariness,  he  played  badly,  and  after  the  per- 
formance Mr.  Sackville  remonstrated  with  him  for  slack- 
ing. 

Adam,  worn  out,  confided  to  him  much  of  what  had 
passed.  Alternate  languor  and  excitement  made  him  even 
so  incautious  that  he  let  slip  his  grandmother's  relationship 
to  the  Earl  of  Derrydown. 

Mr.  Sackville  was  more  impressed  by  this  detail  than 
by  all  the  rest  of  the  story  put  together.  "Now  that  really 
is,"  said  he,  "a  very  remarkable  coincidence,  for  the  pres- 
ent Countess  of  Derrydown  was  the  lady  you  saw  walking 
with  Miss  Nightingale  at  Eastbourne,  and  she,  I  suppose, 
must  be  your  grandmother's  grand-daughter-in-law." 

124 


MR.  SACKVILLE  AS  A  GENTLEMAN         125 

Adam  suggested  niece,  and  Mr.  Sackville  accepted  this 
emendation.  "The  world,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "is  very 
small." 

The  profundity  of  this  observation  was  lost  on  Adam, 
sunk  in  a  yet  more  profound  sleep,  in  which  his  friend 
undressed  and  put  him  all  unconscious  to  bed.  There  he 
dreamed  of  his  first  awakening  to  life  in  the  corner  of 
Malachy  Macfadden's  squalid  lodging  beneath  the  shadow- 
ing walls  of  the  Dublin  Pro-cathedral  ...  to  hear  the 
chafing  of  his  mother's  tongue  and  the  clang  of  intermit- 
tent tram  bells  ...  he  could  see  Mr.  O'Toole,  humor- 
ously vile,  entering  the  door  or  maybe  creeping  with  soft 
feet  down  the  staircase.  .  .  .  What  a  father!  .  .  .  What 
a  mother !  .  .  .  How  did  they  come  to  bring  him — to  whom 
all  that  meant  life  and  joy  for  them  was  hateful  and 
despicable — into  this  breathing  world.  .  .  .  Almost  more 
mysterious  still,  how  did  that  romantic  warrior,  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn,  and  his  then  sentimentally  passionate  be- 
loved, Lady  Daphne  Page,  beget  such  a  monster  of  deprav- 
ity as  Byron  O'Toole?  ...  a  dishonest  menial,  a  Giovanni 
of  the  gutters,  a  whoremonger,  and  now  it  would  appear, 
that  meanest  of  all  things,  a  spy.  And  now  he  and  the 
mere  animal  of  a  woman  on  whom  he  had  gotten  Adam 
were  gone  with  one  another  to  the  Plutonian  shore,  to 
await  there  in  the  company  of  Sir  David  the  explanation 
of  the  causes  that  made  them  what  they  were.  He  asked 
himself  if  father  and  son  had  met  in  tears  or  fury  or,  as 
Mr.  Macarthy  seemed  to  think  possible,  in  laughter  at  the 
vainness  of  their  vanity  in  thinking  to  be  other  than  they 
were. 

It  was  almost  too  much  for  Adam,  the  smashing  knowl- 
edge of  this  torrent  of  death  among  those  with  whom  all 
his  thoughts  of  childhood  were  connected.  He  recalled 
the  first  blow  that  death  had  dealt  his  friends :  how,  when 
almost  at  death's  door  himself,  as  a  little  child  he  had 


126  IN  LONDON 

heard  of  the  dying  of  his  godmother,  to  call  her  no 
more,  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson.  And  then  he  who  had 
brought  him  that  news  and  taught  him  that  his  prayers 
might  waft  that  unfortunate  saint,  as  Father  Innocent 
had  called  her,  to  heaven,  he,  Father  Innocent,  had  died 
more  or  less  by  suicide.  Before  that  had  perished  in 
drunken  wrath  the  terrible  and  obsene  Macfadden,  that 
bugbear  of  his  youth,  who  claimed  him  for  a  son  when 
convenience  bade  him.  Then  death  had  held  his  hand 
awhile  until  suddenly,  and  as  it  were,  forcing  Adam  him- 
self to  be  his  joint  conspirator,  he  had  reft  from  life  Car- 
oline Brady;  and  now,  and  now  he  had  swept  his  scythe 
still  closer  round  Adam,  yet  Adam  himself,  he  had  re- 
jected. Was  it  his  fate  to  see  perish  all  he  loved  while 
he  lived  on  and  on  into  old  age?  One  of  his  guardians 
was  already  gone,  was  he  to  lose  them  all?  ...  Was  he 
to  lose  ...  he  could  not  allow  himself  to  think  of  it. 

These  were  drear  thoughts  that  haunted  him  when  he 
could  not  sleep;  but  the  life  of  the  theater  does  not  lend 
itself  when  one  is  young  to  dreariness,  and  a  successful 
actor  still  in  his  teens,  touring  the  provinces  in  the  com- 
pany of  an  older  one  who  knows  the  ropes,  has  one  of  the 
jolliest  lives  in  the  world.  The  success  of  the  What  Rot! 
revival  at  the  London  theater  had  given  the  piece  a  fresh 
lease  of  life  also  in  the  country,  and  the  bookings  of  a 
second-class  nature  were  easily  bartered  for  first,  and  what 
with  the  big  camps  all  over  the  country  and  the  great 
towns  full  of  munition  workers  rolling  in  ill-gotten  gains, 
there  was  no  necessity  for  the  company  to  take  a  holiday 
that  summer.  Catastrophes  such  as  the  Battle  of  Jutland, 
slaying  five  thousand  Englishmen  in  the  full  glory  of  life 
in  five  minutes,  and  all  for  nothing,  made  their  compa- 
triots all  the  more  eager  to  spend  their  money  enjoying 
What  Rot!  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Sackville  that  the  English 
had  muddled  through  to  victory  in  that  transaction;  it 


MR.  SACKVILLE  AS  A  GENTLEMAN       127 

seemed  to  Adam  that  they  had  valiantly,  more  valiantly 
than  himself,  gone  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

The  low  comedian  made  dirty  jokes  about  the  loss  of 
the  Queen  Mary:  most  of  the  company  said  cheerfully 
that  whoever  lost  or  whoever  won,  it  looked  as  if  the  war 
would  go  on  for  some  time,  and  the  plunge  to  doom  of  the 
Hampshire  with  Lord  Kitchener  on  board  confirmed  the 
optimists.  Miss  Dartmouth  wore  heavy  mourning  for  a 
week  or  ten  days  for  some  one  she  had  lost,  rumor  said 
he  had  in  life  worn  red  tabs.  Adam  thought  she  looked 
adorable  in  mourning,  but  he  had  learned  to  be  content 
to  look  upon  Miss  Dartmouth  without  engaging  her  in 
conversation,  which  was  not  her  strong  point.  He  was 
very  content  to  act  with  her  and  she  with  him:  with  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Sackville,  she  was  the  only  member  of 
the  company  in  whom  he  felt  any  interest,  and  that  was 
not  much.  He  was  living  now  for  his  art,  trying  hard  to 
get  more  and  more  legitimate  effect  in  his  taking  little  part, 
and  at  the  same  time  definitely  studying  the  literature  of 
his  profession,  both  ancient  and  modern. 

October  found  them  playing  in  the  London  suburbs, 
where  they  had  not  only  good  local  audiences,  but  even 
something  of  the  overflow  from  the  Grand,  where  the  re- 
vival was  having  an  unprecedented  boom.  No  doubt  to 
ease  the  public  mind  and  convince  them  that  the  war  was 
well  in  hand,  leading  members  of  the  Cabinet  were  in  con- 
stant attendance,  and  in  his  permanently  retained  box  Lord 
Bulwark  rested  on  the  laurels  he  had  won  at  the  cost  of 
eighty  thousand  lives  in  the  Great  Push. 

For  the  moment  Adam  and  Mr.  Sackville  had  parted 
company,  for  while  in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  the 
latter  resided  with  his  mother  in  West  Kensington,  and 
Adam  went  back  to  Miss  Durward's  welcoming  arms  at 
Norfolk  Square.  He  had  just  realized  that  he  really  was 
very  much  more  comfortable  there  than  in  the  most  com- 


128  IN  LONDON 

fortable  rooms  he  had  occupied  on  tour,  and  rather  dreaded 
setting  out  again  to  face  the  privations  of  the  north  in 
winter,  when  a  telephone  message  summoned  him  one 
morning  to  the  Grand,  where  he  found  that  Mr.  Onsin 
required  him  to  play  Ned  Burke  in  London  while  Miss 
Blake  was  away  upon  a  holiday.  Even  without  the  in- 
ducement of  an  extra  three  guineas  a  week,  Adam  jumped 
at  this  proposal,  though  he  felt  a  little  shamefaced  when 
he  told  Mr.  Sackville  about  it  that  night.  He  feared  the 
elder  actor  would  resent  or  at  least  be  hurt  by  his  parting 
with  him  so  cavalierly.  But  Mr.  Sackville's  attitude  was 
quite  otherwise. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  he,  "apart  from  the  considera- 
tion of  your  advancement,  how  glad  I  am  to  know  that 
Ned  Burke  will  once  more  be  played  by  an  artist  and  not 
by  a  .  .  ."  and  on  this  occasion  again  Mr.  Sackville  thought 
it  unnecessary  verbally  to  complete  his  sentence.  "I  am 
only  sorry  for  myself,"  said  he,  "that  I  am  never  likely 
again  to  have  so  agreeable  a  young  gentleman  to  share 
my  rooms  on  tour.  Although,"  he  added  brightly,  "one 
never  knows,  the  long  arm  of  coincidence  .  .  ."  this  piece 
of  anatomy  clearly  required  no  verb. 

Adam,  to  turn  their  conversation  on  a  subject  that  he 
knew  to  be  of  inexhaustible  interest  to  him,  inquired 
whether  he  had  heard  from  Miss  Nightingale  lately,  and 
Mr.  Sackville  surprised  him  with  the  answer  that  he  not 
only  heard  from  her  but  had  seen  her.  Whereupon  Adam 
archly  suggested  that  she  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Sackville 
employed  in  the  pursuit  of  the  Well-Beloved. 

Mr.  Sackville  sighed:  "I  am  sorry  to  say  that  when 
she  saw  it  she  found  it  a  very  vulgar  play  and  reproached 
me  with  taking  part  in  it." 

"Rather  a  difficult  lady,"  Adam  suggested,  "if  she  blames 
you  and  yet  goes  on  being  in  love  with  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Sackville  stopped  him  with  a  protesting  hand.    "She 


MR.  SACKVILLE  AS  A  GENTLEMAN        129 

is  a  faithful  soul,"  said  he,  "that  is  why  I  call  her  Penel- 
ope, though  I  am  not  her  Telemachus." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought,"  said  Adam,  "that  she  was 
old  enough  to  be  your  mother." 

Mr.  Sackville  threw  a  baffled  look  at  his  young  friend, 
and  suspecting  a  trembling  at  the  corners  of  Adam's 
mouth,  reddened,  but  with  an  effort  he  said  frankly:  "I 
thought  Telemachus  was  the  Latin  .name  for  Ulysses." 

Adam,  disarmed  by  his  invincibly  gentlemanly  simplic- 
ity, said  almost  apologetically:  "I  couldn't  be  sure,  but 
I  think  not.  My  Greek's  so  awfully  bad  that  I  dare  not 
say  anything  about  Homer,  but  anyhow,  Fenelon  makes 
Telemachus  the  son  of  Ulysses." 

"Oh !"  said  poor  Mr.  Sackville,  "fancy  my  not  knowing 
that.  .  .  .  But  I  thought  all  names  ending  in  'us'  must  be 
Latin." 

"Telemachus  is  Latin  right  enough,"  said  Adam. 

"Then  why  did  the  fellow  you  mentioned  call  him  Tele- 
machus?" Mr.  Sackville  argued. 

"He  didn't,"  said  Adam,  "he  called  him  Telemaque." 

"T-e-1-e-m-a-c-k  ?"  Mr.  Sackville  suggested. 

"No,"  said  Adam  regretfully,  "T-e-1-e-m-a-q-u-e."  He 
wished  he  could  remember  whether  there  was  an  accent. 

Mr.  Sackville  turned  to  him  as  one  seeing  a  hope  of  re- 
gaining his  position.  "Surely,"  said  he,  "in  Greek  that 
would  be  pronounced:  'Telemackway' ?" 

"It's  French,"  said  Adam. 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Sackville  positively  cried,  "how  could 
Ulysses,  who  was  a  Greek,  wasn't  he,  have  a  son  with  a 
French  name?" 

"In  Greek,"  said  Adam  thoughtfully,  "I'm  not  sure  that 
the  name  of  Ulysses  was  .  .  ." 

"Don't!"  groaned  Mr.  Sackville,  "I  can't  bear  it,"  and 
so  far  forget  himself  as  to  make  an  impracticable  sugges- 
tion about  his  late  Majesty  of  Ithaca.  "But  anyhow," 


130  IN  LONDON 

he  added  gravely,  "that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Miss  Night- 
ingale." 

Adam,  biting  his  hare's  foot,  rouge  and  all,  agreed.  He 
ventured  to  add  that  he  preferred  the  name  of  Jane  to 
that  of  Penelope. 

"I  cannot  admit  that,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "although,  as 
you  know,  I  am  no  scholar,  I  feel  instinctively  that  Greek 
names  are  more  beautiful  than  English."  He  added 
hastily:  "Penelope  was  not  French,  was  she?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "I  think  not,  but  isn't  Jane  really  a 
French  name?" 

"Is  it?"  Mr.  Sackville  asked  with  almost  painful  humil- 
ity, but  recovered  himself  to  say  proudly:  "Well,  any- 
how, Miss  Jane  Nightingale  is  British  through  and  through. 
Her  father  was  born  in  Hanover  when  it  was  a  British 
possession.  .  .  ." 

"Was  it  ever  a  British  possession?"  Adam  asked. 

This  time  it  was  Mr.  Sackville's  turn  to  smile  politely. 
"Didn't  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  up  to  the  time  of  dear 
Queen  Victoria,  the  king  of  England  was  also  king  of 
Hanover?" 

"Are  you  sure,"  said  Adam,  "you  don't  mean  that  Eng- 
land was  a  Hanoverian  possession?" 

Again  poor  Mr.  Sackville's  face  fell.  "Was  it?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Adam,  and  Mr.  Sackville  again  brightened. 

"Of  one  thing  I  am  quite  sure,"  said  he,  "that  in  her 
innermost  heart  Jane  Nightingale  is  as  English  as  you  or 
I,"  whereupon  Adam  quite  incontinently  flung  his  hare's 
foot  in  Mr.  Sackville's  face,  and  as  incontinently  Mr.  Sack- 
ville's fist  knocked  him  over  with  a  blow  on  the  nose. 

This  was  scarcely  delivered  ere  he  heard  his  voice  cry- 
ing in  entreaty:  "Forgive  me,  Quinn,  I  apologize.  When 
I  talk  of  Miss  Nightingale  I  forget  myself,  but  I  see 
clearly  that  I  have  yeen  very  tactless." 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 
LADY  DERRYDOWN  AT  HOME 

THROUGH  tears  of  physical  anguish,  induced  by  the  shock 
to  his  proboscis,  Adam  gaped  at  Mr.  Sackville,  whose  fine 
eyes  were  no  less  liquid  with  remorse.  "All  right,  old 
bean,"  he  stuttered,  "my  fault  as  much  as  yours."  In  his 
heart  he  felt  this  absurd  quarrel  to  be  symbolic  of  the 
contest  between  the  sister  islands ;  but,  hopeless  of  explain- 
ing himself  to  Mr.  Sackville,  he  just  took  his  proffered 
hand  and  shook  it. 

"If  you  have  forgiven  me,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "for  be- 
having in  such  an  un-English  fashion — there  are  moments 
when  the  coarser  fiber  of  the  Macfaddens  .  .  ."  he 
checked  himself  confusedly,  "there  I  am  again,  putting 
my  foot  in  it!" 

Adam's  sense  of  humor  conquered  the  pain  in  his  nose. 
"The  Macfadden's  fiber,  so  far  as  I  knew  it,  was  coarse," 
he  said. 

Mr.  Sackville  bowed.  "You  are  magnanimous,"  he  de- 
clared, "and  knowing  that  you  are  magnanimous  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  grant  me  this  favor — Never  mention 
to  Miss  Nightingale  that  I  knocked  you  down.  If  she 
suspected  me  of  such  brutality  she  would  never  speak  to 
me  again." 

"It  was  only  rough  and  tumble,"  said  Adam  stoutly, 
"but  of  course  I  shouldn't  mention  it  to  any  one,  unless 
as  a  bit  of  fun." 

Mr.  Sackville  shook  his  head.  "You  don't  know  Miss 
Nightingale" 

131 


i32  IN  LONDON 

"And  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  will,"  Adam  answered,  not 
without  guile. 

"Shall,"  Mr.  Sackville  admonished  him,  "is  more  cor- 
rect English.  'I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall.' " 

Adam  was  on  the  point  of  replying  that  Shakespeare 
did  not  think  so,  but  refrained,  repeating  dutifully:  "I 
don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  meet  Miss  Nightingale,"  and 
Mr.  Sackville  was  beaming  upon  him  when  his  dresser 
entered  with  a  letter. 

"Came  by  the  last  post,  Mr.  Sackville,  and  marked 
'Urgent/  "  he  said  officiously,  "so  they  sent  it  up." 

That  dresser  had  the  air  of  a  prescriptive  right  to  know 
the  contents  of  Mr.  Sackville's  letter,  and  Adam  himself 
was  ashamed  to  feel  curiosity  about  it.  But  Mr.  Sack- 
ville, having  thanked  his  dresser,  sat  gazing  long  and  lov- 
ingly at  the  superscription,  murmuring:  "The  arm  .  .  ." 
and  no  more.  Adam  left  him  at  it  while  he  descended  to  the 
stage  to  play  his  scene,  and  it  was  not  until  the  last  inter- 
val that  he  saw  Mr.  Sackville  yield  to  the  urgency  desired 
by  the  writer  of  this  letter.  Then  he  said  in  a  strangled 
voice:  "My  God!  the  arm  grows  longer  every  day." 

"God's  arm?"  Adam  queried,  without  great  interest. 

Mr.  Sackville  gravely  shook  his  head.  "Worse  than 
that — the  arm  of  coincidence."  He  waved  his  letter  slowly 
to  and  fro  with  a  melancholy  gesture.  "Miss  Nightin- 
gale .  .  ."  After  some  minutes  he  added:  "You  will, 
of  course." 

Adam  knew  Mr.  Sackville's  syntax  sufficiently  well  by 
this  time  to  supply  the  missing  words  for  himself.  He 
understood  that  this  adorable  woman  desired  for  some 
unknown  reason  that  he,  Adam,  should  be  brought  to  her. 
He  was  less  flattered  than  Mr.  Sackville  deemed  he  ought 
to  be,  but  more  flattered  than  he  felt  inclined  to  admit. 
"Awfully  good  of  her,"  he  said  offhand,  "but  you'll  be 
much  too  busy." 


LADY  DERRYDOWN  AT  HOME  133 

Mr.  Sackville  sighed.  "I  am  never  too  busy  to  do  what 
Pen  .  .  .  What  Miss  Jane  Nightingale  desires,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"Well,"  said  Adam  nonchalantly,  "of  course  if  you're 
free  I  shall  be  charmed  to  be  taken  to  see  any  friend  of 
yours.  Is  Miss  Nightingale  in  London,  or  where?" 

"In  London,"  Mr.  Sackville  said,  trying  not  to  stress 
the  information,  "staying  with  Lady  Derrydown  at  her 
town  house  in  Eaton  Place." 

"Pimlico  Way?"  said  Adam,  proud  of  his  rapidly  gained 
knowledge  of  the  Metropolis. 

"Belgravia,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  and  added:  "Have  you 
a  tall  hat?"  He  seemed  almost  to  hope  that  if  Adam  had 
no  hat  of  any  altitude,  the  Fates  might  yet  be  thwarted. 

But  Adam  pointing  to  the  one  he  wore  as  Ned  Burke, 
Mr.  Sackville's  face  fell.  "I  had  .  .  ."  said  he,  and  said 
no  more  for  the  time.  But  at  parting  he  made  the  ap- 
pointment. "Sunday,  three  o'clock,  at  Sloane  Square  Sta- 
tion. Don't  forget  your  hat.  Not  that  Miss  Nightingale 
would  care,  but  Lady  Derrydown  is  very  particular.  She 
was  a  Gaiety  girl  before  the  war,  and  you  know  how 
snobbish  they  can  be." 

This  was  the  first  Adam  had  heard  of  the  snobbishness 
of  the  ladies  of  that  theater,  but  he  nodded  intelligently 
as  if  it  had  been  a  household  word  in  the  late  Mr.  Macf ad- 
den's  apartments.  A  knowledgable  air  still  disguised  his 
normally  ingenuous  countenance  as  he  commented:  "Odd 
that  Miss  Nightingale  should  be  so  fond  of  her." 

Mr.  Sackville  frowned:  "You  are  quite  .  .  ."  he  said 
almost  eagerly  but  without  indicating  whether  he  meant 
wrong  or  right;  whichever  it  was,  Adam  felt  that  he  re- 
sented the  suggestion.  He  said  good-night  at  the  stage- 
door,  turned  rapidly  away,  and  as  rapidly  retraced  his 
footsteps,  to  add  in  a  rather  severe  tone:  "Miss  Night- 
ingale, as  you  will  find  out  for  yourself,  is  a  very  extraor- 


IN  LONDON 

dinary  woman,  but  please  understand  that  there  is  nothing 
whatever  unusual  about  her." 

"That's  what  you  might  call  an  English  bull,"  said 
Adam. 

"Flippancy  about  Miss  Nightingale  I  cannot  tolerate," 
said  Mr.  Sackville. 

Adam  sobered  at  once.  "I  wasn't  flippant  about  her," 
said  he,  "I  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing,  but  you  don't 
mind  my  being  flippant  about  you,  do  you?" 

And  Mr.  Sackville,  good-humoredly  shaking  his  head, 
answered:  "Not  at  all,"  and  admonishing  him  not  to 
forget  their  appointment,  bade  him  once  more  good-night. 

That  day  closed  with  an  Adam  whose  interest  in  life 
was  doubly  awakened.  For  was  he  not  now  to  be  a  Lon- 
don actor  and  a  gentleman  received  in  the  houses  of  the 
nobility?  .  .  .  But  did  England's  nobility  condescend  to 
lodge  in  Eaton  Place?  .  .  .  Some  one  had  told  him  that 
Carson  lived  there.  Surely  no  English  nobleman  .  .  . 
surely  Miss  Nightingale,  who  looked  the  very  soul  of 
nobility!  .  .  .  But  then  Carson  had  lived  in  a  very  hand- 
some house  in  Merrion  Square,  only  a  door  or  two  from 
Plunkett  House.  .  .  .  Fancy  A.E.  and  Carson  side  by 
side!  .  .  .  Besides,  the  Derrydown  peerage  was  Irish,  and 
Irish  peerages  are  not  as  good  as  other  Irish  things  like 
butter  and  bacon.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it  was  very  delicious  to 
be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  thought  that  whatever  his  father 
and  mother  might  have  been,  Mr.  Sackville  saw  he  was  a 
perfect  gentleman  and  no  end  of  an  artist,  and  Lady  Der- 
rydown had  asked  him  to  come  to  tea.  Once  in  the  night 
he  was  startled  from  sleep  by  the  fancy  that  as  he  entered 
Lady  Derrydown's  drawing-room  her  ladyship's  eye  called 
his  attention  to  the  fact  that  his  tall  hat  was  that  of  a 
schoolboy  and  not  a  man  of  the  world. 

When  he  met  Mr.  Sackville  at  Sloane  Square  Station  he 


LADY  DERRYDOWN  AT  HOME  135 

had  the  right  sort  of  hat,  and  he  flattered  himself,  was 
well-nigh  faultlessly  attired,  though  not  without  misgiving 
that  Mr.  Macarthy  might  disagree  with  him.  Anyhow, 
not  Mr.  Sackville  nor  yet  his  hostess  found  any  fault  with 
him.  Miss  Nightingale  and  the  Countess  were  in  what 
they  called  mufti,  but  a  uniformed  figure  lounged  in  an 
armchair  by  the  fire:  the  gray  head  and  bowed  back  sug- 
gested to  Adam  a  broken-down  staff  -officer.  He  was 
startled  to  hear  Lady  Derrydown  say:  "You  know  my 
aunt,  don't  you?" 

More  startled  was  he  still  when  the  staff  officer  cried  in 
a  piercing  voice :  "My  God,  how  like  David !"  and  to  find 
himself  violently  forced  into  a  prostrate  attitude  in  the 
lap  of  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica. 

As  he  lay  thus  in  his  grandmother's  lap,  he  could  hear 
Mr.  Sackville's  cultured  voice  murmuring:  "Ah,  Miss 
Nightingale,  this  is  indeed  what  dear  old  Haddon  Cham- 
bers called  in  his  exquisite  play,  Captain  Swift — Tree  did 
it  at  the  Haymarket,  you  know,  long  before  your  time,  But 
I  had  the  privilege  of  walking  on  in  it — the  long  arm  of 
coincidence."  To  Lady  Derrydown  he  said :  "But  a  coiiv- 
cidence  is  always  remarkable  whether  its  arms  are  long  or 
short,  don't  you  think?"  and  picking  up  the  Marchesa's 
spectacles,  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  he  regarded  them 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  protesting:  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why,  but  this  reminds  me  of  East  Lynne" 

The  Marchesa  released  Adam  to  say:  "Don't  bt  a 
damn  fool!  East  Lynne  is  disgusting  rubbish.  I  remem- 
ber telling  Mrs.  Wood  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  and  she 
was  already  as  old  as  Methuselah,  that  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  have  written  it." 

"Perhaps  you  never  saw  it  as  a  play,"  Mr.  Sackville 
gently  suggested.  "I  have  only  the  privilege  of  knowing 
it  as  a  play." 


136  IN  LONDON 

"I  don't  know  it  as  anything  beyond  hearsay,"  the  Mar- 
chesa  snapped.  "If  you  think  I'd  read  an  English  novel 
or  see  an  English  play  .  .  ."  words  failed  her. 

"I  am  not  enough  of  a  scholar,"  said  Mr.  Sackville 
deferentially,  "to  form  an  opinion  about  English  novels, 
though  there  is  always  Dickens,  isn't  there,  and  they  tell 
me  Hall  Caine  is  clever,  but  surely,  in  drama  England  is 
pre-eminent?  Think  of  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan." 

"Who  is  this  man?"  the  Marchesa  asked  Adam,  who 
piped  up  readily  the  information  that  he  was  Mr.  Arthur 
Sackville,  and  one  of  his  best  and  kindest  friends. 

The  Marchesa's  tone  changed.  "Sackville,"  said  she, 
"is  an  unfortunate  name." 

"It  is  not  really  mine,"  the  actor  broke  in  hastily.  "I 
have  the  privilege  to  be  a  Smith." 

"That's  better,"  said  the  Marchesa  generously,  "any- 
thing to  Smith  O'Brien?" 

The  actor  hesitated.  "I  don't  think  so,"  he  said  re- 
luctantly, "but  of  course  one  never  knows." 

"One  doesn't,"  said  the  Marchesa.  She  sighed.  "I 
know  that  from  experience.  What  you  said  just  now  is 
quite  true,  Mr.  Smith.  I  mean  about  the  legs  of  coinci- 
dence." 

Mr.  Sackville  said  deferentially:  "The  phrase  that  dear 
old  Haddon  Chambers  used,  was  the  long  arm  of  coin- 
cidence, meaning,  I  suppose,  that  it  embraces  widely  sep- 
arated things,  but  of  course  there's  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  have  said  leg." 

The  Marchesa  tossed  her  head.  "Do  you  suppose  your 
Censor  would  have  let  him?" 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  Mr.  Sackville  said  earnestly.  "In 
America,  I  am  told,  well-bred  people  speak  of  the  limbs 
of  a  table,  but  in  England  we  are  more  robust." 

"I  don't  care  whether  you're  robust  or  not,"  the  Mar- 


LADY  DERRYDOWN  AT  HOME  137 

chesa  said,  "if  you've  been  kind  to  little  Adam  here,  that's 
enough  for  me,  though  I'm  ashamed  of  him  for  deserting 
his  country  in  the  hour  of  need." 

"Surely  Mr.  Quinn,"  said  the  actor,  "is  too  young  for 
the  firing  line?" 

"Mr.  Quinn?"  the  Marchesa  echoed.  "What  Mr. 
Quinn?" 

Adam  apologetically  explained  that  this  was  the  name 
he  was  known  by  on  the  stage. 

The  Marchesa  looked  at  him  sternly,  or  rather  with  a 
sort  of  wild  fierceness.  "If  you  had  been  a  real  Quinn," 
she  said,  "you  would  have  been  with  me  on  Easter  Mon- 
day." 

Mr.  Sackville  came  to  Adam's  rescue.  "Madam,"  he 
said,  "you  may  not  understand  that  we  had  two  perform- 
ances on  Easter  Monday,  and  it  would  have  been  impos- 
sible for  Mr.  Quinn  to  get  away." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "I  have  been  an  actress  myself, 
and  am  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  customs  of  the 
profession,  but  if  you  think  that  a  man  is  justified  in  play- 
ing a  silly  part  in  an  idiotic  play  when  he  ought  to  be 
fighting  for  his  country  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Sackville  flung  out  protesting  hands:  "I  am  over 
age,"  he  cried,  "and  my  heart  is  weak.  ...  I  was  in 
munitions  until  it  gave  me  neuralgia." 

"What  is  that  to  me?"  said  the  Marchesa.  "So  far  as 
I  know  you  have  no  country  worth  fighting  for,  but  this 
child  here  is  an  Irishman,  and  as  an  Irishman  it  was  his 
duty  to  be  fighting  beside  me  on  Easter  Monday." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  cried  Mr.  Sackville. 

"I  do,"  cried  the  Marchesa.  "I  am  a  rebel  with  a  price 
upon  my  head." 

"But  surely,"  said  Mr.  Sackville.  "You  have  never 
actually  .  .  ." 


i38  IN  LONDON 

"I  have,"  cried  the  Marchesa.  Her  voice  shot  up :  "On 
Easter  Monday,  I  pledge  you  my  word,  that  I  emptied 
revolver  after  revolver  into  the  British  phalanx  advancing 
to  arrest  me,  and  although  I  am  short-sighted,  it  seems 
impossible  that  all  should  have  escaped." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 
HOW  THE  MARCHESA  ESCAPED 

MR.  SACKVILLE  gazed  at  the  Marchesa  petrified.  At  last 
he  said,  as  one  with  difficulty  collecting  his  thoughts: 
"This  phalanx  .  .  .  you  thought  you  saw  .  .  .  advancing 
to  arrest  you  .  .  ." 

"I  didn't  think  I  saw  it,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

Mr.  Sackville  looked  relieved.  "Pardon  me.  I  thought 
you  thought  you  saw  it,"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,"  snapped  the  Marchesa,  "I  saw  it 
right  enough,  there  was  no  time  for  thinking  about  it." 

"I  apologize,"  Mr.  Sackville  assured  her,  "but  if  this 
phalanx  was,  as  you  thought,  going  to  arrest  you,  it  must 
have  been  composed  of  police." 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"But  if  it  was  going  to  arrest  you,  as  I'm  sure  you 
thought  it  was,"  Mr.  Sackville  respectfully  argued,  "and 
you  didn't  kill  or  wound  it,  why  didn't  it  arrest  you?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "that's  what  I  think 
is  unfair." 

"Unfair?"  Mr.  Sackville  echoed.  "Not  to  arrest  you 
was  unfair?" 

"Most  unfair,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "both  to  me  and  the 
dear  boys  who  would  have  given  their  lives  to  defend  me." 

Mr.  Sackville  flung  a  despairing  glance  around  the  room. 
"Upon  my  word,  I  ..."  he  said,  and  left  it  at  that. 

Adam  came  to  the  rescue.  "Why  didn't  they  arrest 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Colonel  Dixon  was  in  command,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

139 


140  IN  LONDON 

The  Countess  spoke  for  the  first  time.  "Not  Tommy 
Dixon?"  said  she.  "Well,  of  course,  he  couldn't,  could 
he?" 

"He  could,  but  he  didn't,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"Old  dear,"  murmured  the  Countess. 

And  now  Miss  Nightingale's  beautiful  voice  broke  in: 
"I'm  awfully  interested,  but  as  much  in  the  dark  as  Mr. 
Sackville.  May  I  ask  what  really  happened?" 

The  Countess  anticipated  the  Marchesa's  reply.  "Janie, 
old  love,  don't  you  see,  Tommy  Dixon's  no  end  of  a  flame 
of  mine,  and  he  couldn't  decently  go  and  do  a  thing  like 
that." 

Adam  was  thoroughly  interested,  and  implored  his 
grandmother  to  tell  them  what  Dixon  did. 

This  started  the  Marchesa  on  a  somewhat  baffling  nar- 
rative from  which  Adam  gathered  that  the  gentleman 
called  Dixon,  apparently  an  officer  of  local  importance, 
had  persuaded  the  Marchesa  to  lay  down  her  arms  on 
condition  of  the  Infant  Druids  being  dismissed  then  and 
there  without  arrest.  He  had  then  placed  her  in  charge 
of  a  junior  officer  with  instructions  to  seek  an  early  op- 
portunity of  allowing  her  to  escape.  This  was  easily 
effected  by  the  Marchesa  bringing  him  on  a  fairly  plausible 
pretext  to  the  Muses  Club,  going  upstairs  and  not  coming 
down  again  until  he  had  grown  tired  and  gone  away.  Mrs. 
Burns  coming  in  to  a  committee  meeting  and  finding  her 
concealed  in  the  dressing-room,  had  suggested  changing 
clothes  with  her.  Accordingly,  while  Mrs.  Burns  attended 
her  committee  in  the  uniform  of  the  Arch-druid,  the  Mar- 
chesa had  left  the  building  attired  as  Mrs.  Burns. 

Mr.  Sackville  listened  with  the  deepest  interest. 
"Would  it  not  have  been  safer  to  stay  where  you  were?" 
he  cried* 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Marchesa.     "I  have  one  particu- 


HOW  THE  MARCHESA  ESCAPED  141 

larly  bitter  and  unscrupulous  enemy  at  the  Castle  who 
would  certainly  have  told  the  police  to  look  for  me." 

"Leaper-Carahar  ?"   Adam   asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marchesa  dramatically.  "Leaper-Car- 
ahar!  He  would  have  stopped  at  nothing  to  have  me 
hanged  or  shot." 

"What  a  cruel  man,"  said  Mr.  Sackville.  "How  pleased 
you  must  be  to  be  safe  from  him  over  here." 

The  Marchesa  tossed  her  head.  "I  was  safe  enough 
from  him  in  Dublin  until  I  got  tired  of  hiding  myself." 

"Where  did  you  hide?"  Adam  asked. 

The  Marchesa  smiled  at  him.  "Where  do  you  think  I 
would  be  safest?" 

"At  Mr.  Macarthy's,"  said  Adam  readily. 

"I  know  a  better  place  than  that,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"If  I  were  going  to  hide,"  Adam  said,  "I  couldn't  imag- 
ine a  better  place  than  Mr.  Macarthy's  bedroom." 

"It  depends  who  you  were  hiding  from,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesa. "I'll  tell  you  the  best  place  to  hide  from  Leaper- 
Carahar  if  you  ever  want  to  know,  and  that's  the  place 
where  I  hid." 

By  this  time  even  Miss  Nightingale  was  worked  up  to 
asking  where  the  Marchesa  hid,  and  she  being  now  satis- 
fied that  her  answer  would  have  its  full  effect,  said:  "I 
hid  in  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar's  bedroom." 

"But  didn't  Leaper-Carahar  .  .  ."  said  Mr.  Sackville, 
the  eyes  jumping  out  of  his  head. 

"No,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "he  didn't.  He  never  has. 
She  wouldn't  let  him.  Barbara  Burns — Mrs.  Leaper-Car- 
ahar— is  the  grand-daughter  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn, 
not  the  sort  of  woman  to  tolerate  a  fellow  like  that  in  her 
bedroom." 

"I  thought,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "that  they  were  mar- 
ried." 


142  IN  LONDON 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marchesa  dryly,  "I  dare  say  he  thought 
so,  too,  until  she  taught  him  to  know  better." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Sackville  thoughtfully,  but 
did  not  mention  what. 

Adam's  curiosity  was  now  thoroughly  aroused.  "Did 
you  remain  there  long?"  he  asked. 

"It  seemed  a  long  time  to  me/'  said  the  Marchesa,  "for 
Barbara  talked  about  nothing  but  herself  and  sometimes 
you  and  Stephen  Macarthy." 

"About  Stephen  Macarthy?"  Miss  Nightingale  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "Barbara  always  had  an  ab- 
surd passion  for  him,  just  as  Adam  here  has  for  her." 

"I  haven't,"  cried  Adam,  "certainly  not  now  she's  mar- 
ried." 

"Pooh!"  said  the  Marchesa,  "that  isn't  a  marriage,  I'd 
hardly  even  call  it  a  manage  blanc." 

Miss  Nightingale's  voice  chimed  in  again.  "And  how 
did  you  escape  from  there?" 

"Oh,  there  was  no  difficulty  whatever  in  that,"  the  Mar- 
chesa said.  "I  just  left  when  I  thought  fit  in  this  uniform 
of  Leaper-Carahar's.  He  was  in  the  Methuseleers." 

"The  Methuseleers?"  Mr.  Sackville  deferentially  asked. 
"Is  that  an  Irish  regiment?" 

"An  Irish  regiment!  God  forbid!"  said  the  Marchesa. 
"It's  a  sort  of  volunteer  corps  made  up  of  Castle  officials 
and  some  old  fogies  who  ought  to  know  better." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Sackville  brightly,  "and  they  are  called, 
no  doubt,  after  their  commander?  Some  such  name  as 
Methuen?" 

"They're  called  after  Methuselah,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

Mr.  Sackville  sighed:  "I'm  afraid  I'm  a  little  out  of 
my  depth.  .  .  .  Biblical  scholarship  is  not  .  .  ." 

Miss  Nightingale  spoke  again.  "I  must  say  you  are  a 
courageous  woman  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den  and  then 
go  off  disguised  in  his  skin." 


HOW  THE  MARCHESA  ESCAPED  143 

"I  suppose  you  mean  I'm  an  ass?"  said  the  Marchesa 
sharply. 

"You  are  too  quick,"  Miss  Nightingale  replied,  "if  I 
thought  it  I  did  not  mean  to  say  it." 

"That's  straight,"  said  the  Marchesa  good-humoredly, 
"and  very  few  women  are  straight." 

"They  compare  favorably  with  men,"  said  Miss  Night- 
ingale. 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  the  Countess,  "I  think  men  are 
damned  rotters." 

"I  protest,"  said  Mr.  Sackville.  "We  may  not  be  as 
straight  as  ladies,  but  we  are  less  crooked  than  the  .  .  ." 

"Than  the  what?"  snapped  the  Marchesa. 

"The  inferior  animals  generally,"  said  Mr.  Sackville. 
"The  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  jackal  and,  perhaps  some  one  would 
correct  me  if  I  am  wrong  in  saying,  the  lynx.  On  the 
other  hand,  of  course,  the  elephant  is  .  .  ." 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"I  have  always  heard  the  elephant  well  spoken  of,"  Mr. 
Sackville  said  temperately. 

"Irish  elephants,  I  know,  are  all  right,"  the  Marchesa 
admitted,  "but  if  you're  to  believe  Rudyard  Kipling,  all 
the  Indian  elephants  are  traitors  to  their  country.  I'd 
rather  be  a  woman,  but  most  of  all  I'd  like  to  be  an  Irish- 
man like  Jim  Connolly." 

Adam  broke  in  impulsively:     "So  should  I." 

"Then  why  did  you  run  away  like  a  little  coward?" 
said  the  Marchesa. 

Adam  was  now  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "I  shouldn't 
have  run  away  if  I'd  been  in  Dublin  on  Easter  Monday," 
he  said. 

Again  Miss  Nightingale  broke  in.  "We  still  don't 
know  what  happened  after  you  left  Mrs.  Carahar's  house 
wearing  her  husband's  uniform." 

The  Marchesa  smiled  with  an  expression  that  Adam 


144  IN  LONDON 

never  remembered  to  have  seen  on  her  face  before.  "A 
great  deal  happened  after  I  left  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar's 
house." 

Mr.  Sackville  murmured  sympathetically:  "It  must 
have  been  an  extraordinary  experience  for  a  lady  to  be 
walking  the  streets  of  a  great  city  in  ...  I  suppose  you 
wore  trousers?" 

"You  don't  suppose  Leaper-Carahar  wore  skirts," 
growled  the  Marchesa. 

Said  Miss  Nightingale:  "I  wonder  that  you  were  not 
recognized." 

"You  needn't  wonder  about  that,"  said  the  Marchesa. 
"I  was  spotted  again  and  again." 

"And  yet  here  you  are,"  Mr.  Sackville  almost  chirped; 
"it's  a  delightfully  fascinating  story." 

The  Marchesa  looked  at  him  grimly :  "I  wonder  if 
you'd  say  that  if  you  knew  the  whole  of  it?" 

Said  the  Countess:    "Tell  him  and  see." 

Mr.  Sackville  shook  his  head.  "Pray  don't  tell  me  any- 
thing it  might  distress  me  to  hear." 

The  Marchesa  looked  at  him  mockingly.  "I  wonder 
if  it  would  distress  you  to  hear  what  I  did  after  I  left 
that  house  where  I  had  been  hiding?" 

"If  it  was  anything  violent,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "par- 
ticularly anything  unladylike  .  .  ." 

"It  was  very  unladylike  in  one  way,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesa, "for  it  forced  me  to  visit  a  brothel,"  she  waited, 
as  it  were,  with  an  air  of  challenge  for  Mr.  Sackville  to 
be  horrified. 

But  Mr.  Sackville's  expression  became  almost  beatific. 
"Ah,  no,"  he  said,  "my  nerves  may  be  weak,  but  believe 
me,  I  am  not  prudish.  My  dear  mother  herself  has  al- 
ways taken  a  lively  interest  in  such  work." 

It  was  the  Marchesa's  turn  to  be  shocked.  "Such 
work?"  she  repeated,  "your  mother?" 


HOW  THE  MARCHESA  ESCAPED  145 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "only  not  in  England.  Res- 
cue work  in  India,  missions  to  the  Zenanas — I  still  sub- 
scribe." 

"My  rescue  work  was  not  quite  like  that,"  said  the 
Marchesa.  "The  Zenana  my  mission  brought  me  to  was 
kept  by  a  traitor." 

"Terrible,"  said  Mr.  Sackville,  "and  how  immensely 
brave  of  you.  Was  the  man  a  German?" 

"No,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "he  was  an  Irishman. " 

"But  in  German  pay,"  said  Mr.  Sackville. 

"In  British  pay,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

Mr.  Sackville  smiled  with  sweet  feebleness.  "I'm  very 
stupid  about  following  you,"  he  said.  "Now  what  exactly 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  the  Marchesa,  looking  at  him  rather 
hard,  "that  this  accursed  scoundrel  was  a  creature  of 
Leaper-Carahar's  who  seduced  youngsters  of  mine  to  his 
den  that  his  harpies  might  find  out  our  secrets." 

Mr.  Sackville  wiped  his  brow.  "It  sounds  perfectly 
awful,"  he  said,  "though  my  mind  is  so  confused  about 
it  that  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say." 

Said  the  Countess:  "I  hope  you  dealt  with  the 
stinker  ?" 

Mr.  Sackville  protested:  "It's  so  difficult  to  deal  with  a 
case  like  that.  Of  course  the  police  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

Miss  Nightingale  came  and  stood  beside  Adam  and 
looked  with  strong  yet  placid  eyes  at  the  Marchesa.  "I 
think  I  can  imagine  what  you  did,"  said  she.  "You  can 
trust  Mr.  Sackville  not  to  betray  it." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  whether  he  betrays  it  or  not,"  said 
the  Marchesa.  "I  blew  the  scoundrel  and  his  house  to 
hell." 

Adam's  brain  caught  fire,  but  he  was  conscious  of  Miss 
Nightingale's  fingers  patting  soothingly  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 
MORE  COMPANY  FOR  SIR  DAVID 

ADAM'S  brain  burned.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a 
long  and  intolerable  pause  in  which  every  one  except  the 
Marchesa  was  staring  at  him.  Then,  as  it  were,  with  a 
splash  in  that  sea  of  silence,  fell  the  voice  of  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  in  the  polite  tone  of  one  who  feels  it  to  be  his  duty 
to  say  something.  More  respectfully  than  ever  he  ad- 
dressed the  Marchesa:  "I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  priv- 
ilege it  is  that  you  should  give  me  your  confidence  with 
regard  to  this  .  .  .  this  ...  as  it  were,  peccadillo  that 
you  have  just  mentioned.  ...  I  feel  it  very  deeply,  and  I 
am  sure  that  Mr.  Quinn  here  will  understand  as  readily 
as  I  do  why  it  must  go  no  farther.  But  at  the  same  time 
I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to  point  out  that  what  you  did  was 
not  merely  unladylike,  as  my  mother  in  her  perhaps  old- 
fashioned  way  of  thinking  would  say,  but  speaking  in  the 
name  of  our  common  humanity,  and  although  a  conserva- 
tive in  politics,  I  claim  to  be  not  altogether  inhumane,  it 
seems  to  me  that  to  blow  up  a  house  for  whatever  reason, 
and  however  noble  a  motive,  is  .  .  ." 

He  looked  round  appealingly  to  Miss  Nightingale. 

"I  wish  I'd  blown  up  the  whole  street,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesa in  a  voice  of  challenge. 

Mr.  Sackville  chivalrously  answered:  "This  ungentle 
mood  will  pass." 

The  Marchesa  rose  from  her  chair,  not  without  diffi- 
culty, and  with  the  movement  of  a  perambulating  scare- 
crow, made  the  best  of  her  way  to  Mr.  Sackville,  who  sup- 
pressed a  shrinking  visible  to  all  but  her  as  she  approached 

146 


MORE  COMPANY  FOR  SIR  DAVID          147 

him.  Placing  her  bony  right  hand  under  his  chin,  she 
gazed  into  his  eyes  and  said:  "From  your  talk  I  thought 
you  were  a  boy  of  Adam's  age,  but  I  see  you're  getting  on. 
Anyhow,  you're  a  dear,  gentle  creature,  and  I'm  sure  Adam 
has  found  a  good  friend.  This  is  your  reward  for  being 
kind  to  him,"  and  her  lipless  mouth  descended  in  a  ro- 
mantically and  maternal  fashion  somewhere  between  the 
nose  and  chin  of  Mr.  Sackville. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  wrung  the  Marchesa's 
hand  and  murmured:  "I  shall  never  forget  this,  never, 
but  I  shall  never  mention  it;  you  may  rely  upon  my  .  .  ." 

The  Marchesa  returned  to  her  place  by  the  fire  and  Mr. 
Sackville's  experience  as  an  actor  indicated  to  him  that 
he  would  do  well  now  to  take  his  leave.  A  glance  of  in- 
terrogation from  Adam  to  Miss  Nightingale  admonished 
him  to  leave  his  young  friend  behind.  So,  with  some 
speeches  of  courtesy  and  the  hope  that  the  Marchesa  would 
not  distress  her  friends  by  running  such  risks,  he  was 
gone.  No  sooner  had  the  hall-door  closed  behind  him, 
than  on  some  murmured  excuse  Lady  Derrydown  and 
Miss  Nightingale  also  withdrew,  and  Adam  found  himself 
alone  with  his  grandmother.  His  brain  cooled  as  he  gazed 
at  her.  Critically  he  considered  her  with  the  unsenti- 
mental detachment  of  a  child  of  his  time.  In  the  old 
woman's  wild  stare  he  read  that  she  knew  something,  but 
not  all  that  he  knew.  He  saw  that  she  knew  he  was 
descended  from  David  Byron-Quinn,  but  not  that  the 
descent  was  through  her.  And  certainly  she  did  not  know 
that  the  man  whom  she  boasted  of  having  blown  to  hell 
was  her  own  son  and  Adam's  father.  He  wondered  if  he 
ought  to  tell  her:  he  believed  that  he  ought  to  tell  her, 
but  the  words  would  not  come.  They  sat  a  long  time  in 
silence,  then  at  last  she  said  in  a  calm  and  cultured  voice, 
such  as  he  had  seldom  heard  her  use:  "You  know  you 
are  here  because  I  sent  for  you?" 


148  TN  LONDON 

"I  didn't  know  it  until  I  came,"  said  Adam. 

"You  know  now,"  said  the  Marchesa,  and  as  Adam 
nodded  she  went  on :  "Why  do  you  suppose  I  sent  for 
you?" 

"Is  it  about  the  Infant  Druids?"  he  hazarded. 

"No,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "whatever  I  may  say  in  front 
of  other  people,  I  tell  you  now  I  am  very  glad  you  were 
not  there  on  Easter  Monday.  When  I  see  you  now  the 
living  image  of  the  man  I  loved  .  .  .  and  love  .  .  .  the 
thought  that  you  might  have  been  shot  down  beside  me 
is  unbearable."  She  put  out  her  arms  entreatingly :  "I 
love  you,  Adam,  as  I  would  have  loved  my  own  son  if  he 
had  not  been  taken  from  me.  .  .  ."  Seeing  that  Adam 
made  no  movement  in  response,  she  went  on :  "Is  it  be- 
cause I'm  growing  old  and  perhaps  ugly.  ...  I  could  see 
that  actor  fellow  thought  me  no  longer  beautiful.  ...  Is 
that  why  you  won't  come  to  me?  It's  enough  to  make 
your  grandfather  turn  in  his  grave."  She  made  another 
motion  with  her  arms,  in  pitiful  yet  disdainful  appeal. 

But  Adam  only  said :  "You  know  who  my  grandfather 
was?" 

"I  saw  it  from  the  first  glance,"  she  answered.  "You're 
the  living  image  of  him,  even  more  than  your  father." 

Adam  recoiled:  "Then  you  did  know  my  father  .  .  . 
who  he  was?"  he  cried. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  be  such  a  fool  as  to  doubt  it?" 
she  answered.  "But  Stephen,  with  his  old-fashioned  no- 
tion of  chivalry,  told  me  a  lie  about  it." 

Adam  broke  in:  "If  you  mean  Mr.  Stephen  Macarthy, 
he  couldn't  tell  you  a  lie  if  he  tried.  It's  the  one  thing 
in  the  world  I  don't  believe  he  could  do,  no  matter  how 
hard  he  tried."  He  panted  with  resentment  as  he  flung 
the  words  at  her. 

But    the    Marchesa    seemed    only    pleased    by    them: 


MORE  COMPANY  FOR  SIR  DAVID          149 

"Bravo!"  she  cried.  "It's  a  good  thing  to  hear  a  boy 
speak  for  his  father  nowadays." 

"I'm  not  speaking  for  my  father,"  Adam  retorted.  "I 
only  wish  I  could.  .  .  .  I'm  speaking  of  Mr.  Macarthy, 
who  has  been  more  to  me  than  any  father  ever  was.  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  she  interrupted,  "you  think  your  father  was 
Macfadden,  the  tailor.  .  .  .  But  I  give  you  my  word  he 
was  not.  .  .  .  Your  father  was  Stephen  Macarthy  as  sure 
as  Stephen  was  David  Byron-Quinn's  son." 

This  time  Adam  was  taken  by  surprise :  "I  never  knew 
that,"  he  stuttered. 

"No,"  the  Marchesa  answered  triumphantly,  "I  thought 
not.  But  I  tell  you  that  your  father  was  a  gentleman  and 
his  father  before  him.  You've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of, 
Adam,  any  more  than  I.  ...  I'm  as  proud  of  your  father, 
though  he's  a  trimmer  in  politics  ...  as  if  he  were  my 
own  son." 

Adam  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"Perhaps  you'll  not  be  so  proud  to  hear  that  my  real 
father  was  your  son." 

The  Marchesa  stared  at  him  incredulously:  "What 
nonsense  are  you  talking?  I  tell  you  Stephen  Macarthy 
was  your  father.  .  .  .  Who  your  mother  was  I  don't 
know;  for  it  was  not  like  Stephen  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  Adam  said :  "The  point  is 
that  he  was  not  my  father." 

The  Marchesa  laughed  scornfully.  "Allow  me  to  know 
who  your  father  was.  I  suppose  rather  than  admit  you 
were  born  out  of  wedlock  you  wish  to  pose  as  the  son  of  a 
drunken  tailor?" 

Adam  with  an  effort  kept  his  voice  low  and  even :  "Shall 
I  allow  you  to  know  who  my  father  was?"  And,  as  she 
answered  only  with  a  laugh,  let  the  words  escape  him: 
"He  was  the  man  you  blew  up  in  Pleasant  Street." 


150  IN  LONDON 

The  Marchesa  half  rose  from  her  placQ.  "The  what?" 
she  screamed. 

Adam  let  her  have  it :  "Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  of  7  Pleas- 
ant Street,  your  son  by  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn." 

Pulling  herself  together  the  Marchesa  lowered  her  scare- 
crow figure  into  her  chair.  "Rubbish!"  she  snorted,  "I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Adam. 

"This  is  perverse,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "perverse  of  you, 
to  wish  to  be  the  son  of  a  scoundrel  like  O'Toole  rather 
than  a  gentleman  like  Stephen  Macarthy." 

"I  don't  wish  it,"  said  Adam,  "it  was  Mr.  Macarthy 
himself  who  taught  me  to  face  facts." 

"I  never  did  it,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "and  I  never  will. 
.  .  .  No  artist  attaches  any  importance  to  facts." 

"Then  if  you're  an  artist,"  said  Adam,  "why  did  you 
blow  up  7  Pleasant  Street?  That  was  a  fact,  wasn't 
it?" 

"It  may  have  been  a  fact  from  your  point  of  view, 
which  seems  to  be  that  of  the  police,  but  from  my  point 
of  view  it  was  simply  the  most  beautiful  gesture  in  my 
career."  Her  eyes  glowed  with  lunatic  plausibility. 

"I  agree,"  said  Adam,  "that  it  was  a  more  beautiful 
gesture  to  send  my  father  out  of  the  world  than  to  bring 
him  into  it." 

The  Marchesa  laughed.  "What  did  that  actor  fellow 
say  about  coincidence?" 

Adam  almost  smiled  as  he  answered:  "I  don't  remem- 
ber, but  he's  very  fond  of  talking  about  the  long  arm  of 
coincidence." 

"If  what  you  say  is  true,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "I  mean 
if  this  canaille  O'Toole  was  really  my  son,  and  in  the 
world  of  facts  I  suppose  it's  possible,  then  the  arm  of 
coincidence  is  longer  even  than  your  friend  thinks;  for  the 
house  which  I  blew  to  pieces  with  him  and  his  horrible 


MORE  COMPANY  FOR  SIR  DAVID         151 

company,  was,  I  could  almost  swear  to  it,  the  house  in 
which  David  and  I  ..."  she  broke  off  suddenly.  "You're 
yery  young  for  me  to  be  talking  to  about  these  things.  I 
never  discuss  them  with  my  dear  boys."  Her  voice  sank 
very  low  and  her  hand  trembled  as  it  appeared  to  play 
with  the  buttons  of  her  tunic:  "To  think,"  she  said,  "to 
think  .  .  ." 

"I  am  very  young,"  Adam  said,  "but  I'm  old  enough  to 
think  that  the  one  boy  who  might  have  been  dear  to  you, 
who  ought  to  have  been  dear  to  you,  was  my  father  whom 
you  blew  to  hell.  Not  this  year,  mind  you,  but  I  suppose 
nearly  fifty  years  ago." 

The  Marchesa  rose  and  flung  herself  at  his  feet.  "Upon 
your  honor,"  she  demanded,  "do  you  believe  that  Byron 
OToole  was  my  son?" 

Adam  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I 
believe  that  the  Dublin  police  know  it  for  a  fact." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Marchesa  lightly,  and  springing  up 
with  a  recrudescence  of  youth  she  turned  away.  She 
seemed  to  move  quite  idly  to  the  window,  then  he  noticed 
she  had  the  attitude  of  one  listening,  and  he  heard  a  tele- 
phone bell  ring  somewhere  in  the  house.  The  Marchesa 
was  still  standing  by  the  window  fumbling  with  her  button- 
holes as  the  Countess  burst  into  the  room.  "Daphne, 
dear,"  she  cried,  "I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  go." 

"Go  where?"  asked  the  Marchesa  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference. 

"Anywhere  you  like,  old  dear,"  the  Countess  answered, 
"but  you  can't  stop  here.  Derrydown's  just  rung  up  from 
the  club  that  O'Hagan-Bathe  tells  him  that  Scotland  Yard 
believes  you're  in  this  house,  and  are  going  to  act.  Of 
course  I  don't  care  a  damn,  but  it's  an  awkward  moment 
for  an  Irish  peer  to  be  compromised." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Marchesa  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  you  will  go,  won't  you,  old  dear?" 


152  IN  LONDON 

"I  suppose  I  may  as  well,"  said  the  Marchesa  with  a 
very  rational  air. 

The  Countess  flung  her  arms  round  her.  "You  are  an 
old  sport,"  she  cried,  "and  it  does  seem  such  a  shame," 
but  she  disengaged  herself  to  add  anxiously:  "You'll  go 
soon,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  go  now,"  said  the  Marchesa,  opening  the  window 
to  look  out. 

"Do  you  want  a  taxi?"  her  hostess  said,  "if  so  I'll  ring 
for  one,  and  while  it's  coming  you  can  change." 

"Oh,  there's  no  need  to  change,"  said  the  Marchesa 
without  turning  her  head. 

"But  you  can't  go  into  the  street  like  that,"  the  Countess 
protested. 

"Why  not?"  the  Marchesa  queried;  "what  could  be 
easier?" 

"It  isn't  done,"  the  Countess  said,  "every  one  would 
know  who  you  are." 

"That's  what  I've  always  aimed  at,"  said  the  Marchesa. 
"I  wanted  every  one  to  know  who  I  was,  and  I  tell  you 
they  shall.  I  shall  be  remembered  for  ever  and  ever." 

On  the  last  word  there  was  a  flash  and  report  and  her 
body  fell  through  the  window  and  disappeared. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  Miss  Nightingale,  who  said 
in  her  tranquil  voice:  "Is  anything  the  matter?" 

For  answer  came  a  shriek  and  a  thud.  Adam  shrank 
into  his  seat,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Daphne's  gone  and  killed  herself,"  said  the  Countess. 
"I  call  it  perfectly  insane  and  damned  inconsiderate." 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 
ADAM  PROSPERS 

Now  that  the  Great  Push  was  ending  in  the  air,  the  news- 
papers found  it  worth  while  to  make  much  of  the  death 
of  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica.  If  not  fated  to  be 
remembered  for  ever,  she  had  the  considerable  honor  of 
supplying  the  press  with  a  rather  more  than  nine  days' 
wonder,  and  her  glory  reflected  on  Adam  who,  somehow 
or  other,  came  to  be  spoken  of  as  her  grandson.  Mr.  Onsin 
found  it  worth  while  to  advance  his  salary  to  ten  guineas 
a  week.  Revolutionaries  cheered  him  on  the  strength  of 
his  connection  with  Sinn  Fein:  the  Conservatives  showed 
themselves  scarcely  less  appreciative  of  his  connection  with 
the  peerage :  it  all  helped  to  advance  him  in  his  career. 

To  the  casual  observer  passing  down  Eaton  Place  that 
Sunday  afternoon,  it  might  have  seemed  that  the  Marchesa 
had  committed  suicide.  And  that  was  Adam's  impression, 
and  he  thought  also,  from  what  she  said,  the  impression 
of  the  Countess  of  Derrydown.  Indeed  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Macarthy  that  very  night  in  the  most  positive  terms  that 
it  was  so.  Fortunately,  however,  for  every  one  concerned, 
counsel  representing  the  relatives  at  the  inquest  had  no 
difficulty  in  proving  that  nothing  was  farther  from  the  de- 
ceased lady's  mind.  It  appeared  that  she  was  an  impulsive 
lady,  and  on  hearing  that  the  police  had  run  her  down  on 
a  purely  political  charge,  reflecting  in  no  way  on  her  private 
character,  she  had  sought  to  escape  through  the  window, 
and  her  revolver,  a  very  modern  and  dangerous  weapon, 
happening  to  be  in  her  hand,  had  accidentally  gone  off  with 
fatal  results.  ...  As  no  charge  had  been  proved  against 


154  IN  LONDON 

her  the  body  was  handed  over  to  her  relatives,  and  as  she 
was  wearing  uniform  at  the  time,  the  War  Office  chival- 
rously decided  to  give  her  a  military  funeral.  This  took 
place  at  the  family  burial  ground,  which  to  Adam's  sur- 
prise was  in  the  west  of  Ireland  and  not  in  the  south,  as  he 
had  supposed,  and  for  recruiting  purposes  the  firing-party 
was  made  up  of  Irish  Guardsmen  sent  at  considerable  ex- 
pense from  their  depot  in  England.  This  money  was,  how- 
ever, not  entirely  thrown  away,  for  one  of  her  boy  Druids 
subsequently  offered  himself  for  enlistment  in  that  regi- 
ment but  was  rejected  on  the  ground  of  his  name  being 
William  O'Brien.  He  was,  however,  suffered  to  transfer 
his  services  to  the  Middlesex  regiment,  where  he  rapidly 
rose  to  the  command  of  a  battalion. 

Meanwhile  Adam  grew  fat  in  peace,  and  being  now 
prosperous,  as  the  spring  approached  he  felt  arise  within 
him  a  fresh  sentiment  for  Barbara  Burns.  He  had  not 
been  so  much  impressed  by  his  grandmother's  death  as  by 
two  of  the  assertions  she  had  made  in  her  last  hour. 
Firstly,  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  the  connecting  link  be- 
tween him  and  her  long-dead  lover,  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn.  He  could  not  help  wishing  that  this  were  true.  He 
tried  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  true  and  then  hated 
himself  for  his  meanness  in  thinking  Mr.  Macarthy  capable 
of  deserting  a  woman  and  child.  On  the  other  hand  he 
remembered  the  money  that  had  so  mysteriously  been  paid 
through  Father  Muldoon  for  his  upbringing.  Then  again 
to  suspect  Mr.  Macarthy  of  knowing  more  about  this  than 
he  admitted  was  to  make  Mr.  Macarthy  out  something  that 
he  most  certainly  was  not.  Not  so  long  ago  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy had  definitely  said  that  he  wished  he  were  his 
father,  and  as  definitely  confirmed  his  own  belief  that  his 
father  was  Byron  O'Toole,  the  son  of  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn  by  the  Marchesa,  and  flung  by  her  to  the  wolves 
at  the  compulsion  of  her  pious  mother,  the  present  Lord 


ADAM  PROSPERS  155 

Derrydown's  grandmother.  No,  he  could  not  be  the  son 
of  Mr.  Macarthy.  There  was  no  escaping  from  the  fact 
that  O'Toole  was  his  father,  and  the  wife  of  Macfadden 
the  tailor  his  mother.  He  could  only  thank  God  that  both 
were  dead  and  no  one  was  likely  now  to  question  his  right 
to  call  himself  by  his  grandfather's  name.  To  himself  now 
he  was  and  would  be  so  long  as  he  lived,  Adam  Quinn. 
Already  that  name  was  placarded  over  London;  already 
portraits  of  him  under  that  name  had  found  their  way 
into  the  illustrated  papers  that  helped  to  boom  What  Rot! 
and  no  illustrated  paper  lost  its  chance  of  joining  in  that 
boom.  Again  and  again  he  was  referred  to  in  such  phrases 
as:  "This  brilliant  light  of  the  Abbey  Theater,  who  has 
transferred  his  effulgence  to  London."  .  .  .  Yes,  Adam 
Macfadden,  the  child  of  that  disgraceful  couple,  Byron 
O'Toole  and  Bride  Macfadden,  was  dead  and  buried  in 
their  grave,  his  soul  transmigrated  to  Adam  Quinn,  the 
grandson  of  that  hero  of  romance,  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn 
and  his  flamboyant  love,  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica, 
once  Lady  Daphne  Page.  It  was  easy  to  obscure  the  sor- 
didness  of  his  parents  by  keeping  so  far  as  possible  in  the 
reflected  light  of  his  forebears. 

What  surprised  him  more  was  the  Marchesa's  allegation 
that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  the  son  of  Sir  David.  Such  an 
idea  had  never  entered  his  mind,  and  he  felt  convinced 
that  if  true,  Mr.  Macarthy  was  unaware  of  it.  Often  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  spoken  of  his  father  and  always  with  affec- 
tion though  not  always  with  approval.  Adam  visualized 
him  as  a  straightforward  gentleman  who  aimed  at  virtue 
with  an  inadequate  intellectual  equipment.  He  remembered 
to  have  been  told,  not  by  Mr.  Macarthy,  that  his  mother 
had  died  in  giving  him  birth,  and  the  responsibility  of 
his  upbringing  had  fallen  exclusively  on  his  father,  who 
had  not  married  again.  Adam  had  an  impression  of  a 
man  rigidly  faithful  to  the  memory  of  his  first  wife  and 


156  IN  LONDON 

finding  relief  from  his  sorrow  for  her  partly  in  his  work 
at  the  Bar  and  partly  in  his  care  for  his  son.  Mrs.  Ma- 
carthy  was  not  to  be  seen  by  him  at  all.  He  knew  only 
that  she  came  from  Cork  and  was  some  connection  of  Sir 
David's,  but  that  hardly  added  to  the  probability  of  her 
being  his  mistress.  The  more  he  considered  it,  the  more 
did  he  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Marchesa's  chatter 
on  that  fatal  Sunday  was  that  of  a  crazy  old  woman  reel- 
ing to  self-destruction. 

Less  willing  was  he  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  what  she 
had  said  about  Barbara  Leaper-Carahar.  There  was  too 
great  a  food  for  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  she  was  that 
abominable  fellow's  wife  in  no  more  than  name.  If  the 
Marchesa  could  hide  safely  in  her  bedroom  then  it  was 
clear  that  all  relations  between  them  had  ceased,  and  the 
Marchesa  boldly  proclaimed  that  they  had  never  existed. 
Adam  hugged  the  thought  that  they  had  never  existed  .  .  . 
that  after  all  Barbara  was  for  him.  ...  It  was  easy  to 
forget  that  she  was  several  years  older  and  always  pooh- 
poohed  his  love-making  when  it  threatened  to  grow  serious. 
...  He  made  up  his  mind  to  write  to  Mr.  Macarthy  and 
ask  him  if  he  thought  it  possible  .  .  .  but  the  letter  was 
never  written  though  the  idea  was  not  abandoned.  He 
thought  he  might  wait  until  Mr.  Macarthy  came  to  town 
again.  But  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not  come.  .  .  .  The  spring 
warmed  to  summer  and  there  was  nothing  done. 

Adam  grew  fat,  there  was  no  mistake  about  it.  English- 
men complained  of  their  rations  and  grew  thin,  but  Irish- 
men grow  fat  on  rations  insufficient  for  their  plumper 
neighbors.  To  say  that  Adam  grew  fat  does  not  mean  that 
he  grew  as  fat  as  an  Englishman.  It  only  means  that 
he  grew  plumper  and  more  juvenile  in  appearance  than  he 
had  been  on  his  arrival  in  the  metropolis  eighteen  months 
ago.  Now  that  he  was  an  orphan  he  was  at  liberty  to 
enjoy  that  childhood  his  parents  had  denied  him.  There 


ADAM  PROSPERS  157 

was  no  longer  any  question  of  Miss  Blake  coming  back  to 
take  up  her  old  part  in  W hat  Rot!  Despite  his  attach- 
ment for  Miss  Blake,  Mr.  Onsin  recognized  that  to  give  her 
back  the  part  would  not  have  been  good  business.  So  at 
eighteen  years  of  age  Adam  found  himself  enjoying  an 
income  of  over  five  hundred  a  year,  agreeably  earned, 
and  with  no  likelihood  of  being  threatened  so  long  as  he 
kept  his  health  and  his  youthful  appearance,  which  so  far 
had  protected  him  from  the  recruiting  authorities.  Miss 
Durward  saw  to  it  that  he  was  not  registered  and  yet  was 
better  fed  than  if  he  had  been.  ...  It  was  perhaps  a  mere 
coincidence  that  she  procured  lingerie  on  really  very  rea- 
sonable terms  for  the  dearest  friend  of  a  high  official  in 
the  Home  Office.  It  is  only  on  the  Continent  or  west  of 
the  Atlantic  that  officials  lay  themselves  open  to  suspicion. 

Mr.  Sackville,  once  again  playing  Lord  Algy  in  the  sub- 
urbs, spent  a  Sunday  with  him  up  the  river.  Adam  picked 
him  up  at  West  Kensington  Station,  whence  they  trained 
to  Richmond  and  on  by  'bus  to  Kingston,  where  they 
lunched  by  the  waterside  and  then  embarked  in  an  out- 
rigger which  Mr.  Sackville  proposed  to  scull  up  to  some- 
where above  Hampton  Court.  He  placed  Adam  in  the 
stern  sheets,  the  tiller  ropes  in  his  hand.  Adam  did  not 
mention  that  this  was  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  duties 
of  a  coxswain.  They  enjoyed  themselves  very  much  until 
somehow  or  other  the  boat  turned  turtle. 

"I  thought  .  .  ."  said  Mr.  Sackville  reproachfully,  be- 
fore his  head  disappeared  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Fortunately  he  was  rescued,  though  not  by  Adam,  who  was 
so  terrified  at  the  idea  of  being  drowned  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  rescued  himself.  He  was  relieved  to  know 
that  his  companion  was  safe,  and  perhaps  only  a  little  less 
relieved  to  be  told  that  he  was  too  unwell  to  see  any  one, 
being  much  exhausted  by  the  efforts  used  to  restore  him 
by  some  V.A.D.  ladies  who  had  witnessed  the  accident. 


158  IN  LONDON 

Adam  did  not  feel  equal  to  any  further  conversation  with 
Mr.  Sackville  that  day.  It  had  come  to  him  suddenly  that 
success,  with  its  consequent  ease  of  life,  had  turned  him 
into  a  self -satisfied  poltroon.  Mr.  Sackville  breathed  no 
word  of  censure,  being  indeed  fully  rewarded  for  his  pains 
and  the  risks  he  had  run  by  the  opportunity  it  gave  him  of 
publishing  his  latest  photographs,  of  which  the  papers  had 
recently  been  unwilling  to  make  use.  It  was  not  his  fault 
that  he  was  represented  as  having  swam  ashore  with  Adam 
on  his  back  and  then  returned  to  the  water  in  a  quixotic 
effort  to  rescue  a  packet  of  biscuits  which  he  felt  should 
not  be  wasted  in  war  time.  Adam  was  not  blind  to  the 
humors  of  Mr.  Sackville's  advertised  heroism,  but  he  was 
scarcely  less  awake  to  the  sorry  figure  he  himself  had  cut 
in  the  adventure,  and  he  blushed  to  find  his  own  portrait 
appended  as  extra  illustrative  matter  to  those  of  his  friend. 
He  was  terrified  to  know  what  Mr.  Macarthy  would  say  of 
it.  Mr.  Macarthy  said  nothing. 

On  the  other  hand  it  brought  him  a  letter  with  an  en- 
velope addressed  in  writing  that  was  beautiful  and  thrill- 
ing. Where  had  he  seen  it  before?  Where  seen  such  an 
envelope,  unusually  dainty  for  war-time,  and  yet  sufficiently 
sober  and  businesslike?  Had  such  an  envelope  even  been 
addressed  to  him  before?  If  not,  why  was  he  so  familiar 
with  it?  Why  did  he  have  the  impression  of  passing  an 
evening  in  its  company?  He  sat  a  long  time  in  his  dress- 
ing-room contemplating  that  envelope,  deliciously  wonder- 
ing what  exquisite  message  it  might  contain.  Then,  sud- 
denly remembering  how  absurd  he  thought  Mr.  Sackville 
for  doing  the  same  thing,  he  opened  it  and  without  sur- 
prise saw  that  it  came  from  Miss  Nightingale. 

It  appeared  that  she  had  left  London,  returning  to  her 
duties  at  Eastbourne  immediately  after  the  death  of  the 
Marchesa,  but  now  she  was  returned,  so  far  as  she  could 
foresee,  permanently  to  town,  and  would  be  at  her  own 


ADAM  PROSPERS  159 

flat  in  Westminster,  where  she  hoped  Adam  would  come 
to  see  her.  That  was  all,  but  a  postscript  asked  him  the 
flattering  question:  "Why  do  you,  who  have  so  much  in- 
fluence over  our  friend  Mr.  Sackville,  allow  him  to  make 
himself  so  ridiculous?" 

To  be  flattered  by  Miss  Nightingale  was  indeed  a  temp- 
tation, but  Adam  resisted  it.  "The  accident  up  the  river 
was  all  my  fault,"  he  wrote;  "I  made  no  end  of  an  ass 
of  myself  and  then  lost  my  head,  and  Sackville  was  nearly 
drowned,  but  he  never  rounded  on  me  though  I  richly  de- 
served it.  If  you  still  want  me  to  come  to  tea  after  this 
confession,  I'll  come,  but  please  ring  me  up  and  say  so, 
Paddington  .  .  ."  He  gave  Miss  Durward's  number. 

The  next  day  Miss  Nightingale  rang  him  up  saying: 
"Come,  of  course,"  and  the  following  Sunday  he  went, 
taking  a  number  sixteen  'bus  from  the  corner  of  Praed 
Street  to  Victoria.  He  found  that  Miss  Nightingale's  flat 
was  at  the  top  of  a  block  looking  towards  Westminster 
Cathedral. 

As  Adam  stood  on  the  doormat  he  wondered  what  the 
interior  would  be  like.  As  Miss  Nightingale  was  a  great 
friend  of  Lady  Derrydown  it  seemed  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  her  drawing-room  would  in  some  measure  re- 
semble the  Countess's.  That  was  a  very  handsomely  fur- 
nished apartment,  though  in  a  style  Adam  thought  might 
not  have  appealed  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  nor  was  he  quite  sat- 
isfied with  it  himself,  except  for  the  chairs,  which  were 
as  comfortable  saddle-bags  as  he  had  ever  sat  in.  The 
walls  had  been  covered  with  some  sort  of  velvet,  richly 
red;  against  them  hung  paintings  in  large  gold  frames; 
some  of  these  he  thought  might  be  good,  but  that  in  the 
place  of  honor  over  the  mantelpiece  seemed  of  dubious 
value.  It  represented  a  sylph-like  lady  with  scarlet  lips 
and  less  than  no  clothes  offering  a  realistically  painted 
champagne  glass  to  the  first  comer.  This  interesting  work 


i6o  IN  LONDON 

of  art  was  entitled,  if  one  might  rely  upon  the  authority 
of  the  frame-maker,  "A  Toi."  Adam  wondered,  even  at 
the  moment  while  he  was  listening  to  his  grandmother's 
last  speech,  whether  it  was  his  lordship's  taste  or  her  lady- 
ship's, or  worse.  He  knew  that  with  all  her  faults  his 
grandmother  would  not  have  tolerated  it  in  any  room  of 
hers.  .  .  .  Miss  Nightingale's  door  opened. 


Miss  NIGHTINGALE'S  flat  as  little  resembled  Lady  Derry- 
down's  house  as  her  face  and  figure  resembled  her  lady- 
ship's. There  was  no  bright  color  in  her  drawing-room: 
on  that  summer  afternoon,  coming  from  the  dusty  streets 
of  Pimlico,  Adam  found  it  deliciously  cool  in  its  neutrality 
of  tone:  so  far  as  there  was  any  distinct  note  it  was  of 
silvery  gray,  the  key  set  by  Miss  Nightingale's  hair:  her 
pictures  were  etchings  or  faded  prints:  her  considerable 
library  was  clad  in  buff  parchment  or  buckram:  the  very 
roses  on  her  tea-table,  poised  elegantly  in  a  blue-gray  glass 
vase  over  the  white  egg-shell  china  and  silver,  were  paler 
than  seemed  to  him  credible:  "Are  they  artificial?"  he 
asked. 

His  ingenuousness  was  without  offense,  yet  Miss  Night- 
ingale's cheeks  forthwith  gave  her  room  the  glow  that  he 
thought  it  wanted.  "How  could  you  think  me  capable  of 
such  a  thing?"  she  murmured.  "Has  Mr.  Macarthy  never 
told  you  that  artificial  flowers,  at  all  events  as  a  decoration 
in  a  room,  are  the  last  word  in  bad  taste  ?" 

Adam  looked  into  the  saucer-like  blue  eyes  to  which  the 
momentarily  pink  cheeks  gave  a  flash  of  brilliancy.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  know  Mr.  Macarthy?"  said  he. 

Miss  Nightingale's  indignation  melted  into  a  smile. 
"Why  should  I  not  know  him?"  she  returned.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  suppose  I  must  riave  known  him  before 
you  were  born." 

161 


i6a  IN  LONDON 

"Oh!"  Adam  grunted,  this  conjuring  up  of  the  remote 
past  giving  him  food  for  thought.  "If  you  know  him  as 
long  as  that,"  said  he,  "do  you  happen  to  know  who  his 
father  was?" 

Miss  Nightingale's  color  deepened,  and  she  had  the  ef- 
fect of  recoiling  without  definite  movement.  Then  she 
said  in  an  even  voice :  "You  want  to  know  about  his  father  ? 
He  was  a  barrister.  Chiefly,  I  should  say,  on  the  equity 
side,  though  in  Ireland  I  understand  most  barristers  prac- 
tice on  both  sides.  Anyhow,  from  what  Stephen  tells  me 
I  gather  his  reputation  was  won  as  what  they  call  a  black 
letter  lawyer." 

The  new  phrase  tickled  Adam.  "What  sort  of  a  lawyer 
is  that?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Nightingale  smiled  again.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I 
know,  but  I  should  think  it  must  mean  an  authority  on 
the  older  statutes,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  would,"  said  Adam,  admiring  equally  the 
erudition  of  his  hostess  and  her  skill  in  turning  his  ques- 
tion. But  his  spirit  was  too  genuinely  inquiring  to  accept 
a  first  defeat.  "I  knew  that  the  gentleman  who  brought 
him  up  as  if  he  were  his  father  was  a  barrister,"  he  said. 
"But  I  sometimes  thought  perhaps  that  he  was  an  adopted 
son." 

Miss  Nightingale's  voice  chilled  to  the  color  of  her  room. 
"He  never  mentioned  to  me  that  he  was  an  adopted  child. 
In  fact  I  feel  quite  sure  that  he  was  not." 

Adam  expected  her  to  ask  him  how  he  came  by  such  a 
notion,  but  she  refrained  from  doing  so,  and  thus  frus- 
trated his  attempt  to  break  her  line  of  defense  at  this  point. 
But  the  drums  of  his  brain  beat  fast  to  a  fresh  assault. 
"And,  of  course,  he'd  have  something  better  to  talk  about 
than  to  tell  you  who  my  father  was?" 

His  hostess  looked  at  him  so  directly  as  to  rouse  a  mis- 
giving that  she  was  about  to  bid  him  stand  in  the  corner, 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  WESTMINSTER       163 

but  after  a  breath  sufficient  to  allow  this  impression  to 
sink  in,  she  smiled  almost  flatteringly  as  she  replied :  "Mr. 
Macarthy  has  often  spoken  of  you.  I  think  he  has  told 
me  as  much  about  you  as  he  was  sure  you  would  wish  me 
to  know,  but  my  intuition  tells  me  that  you  would  like  to 
tell  me  more  about  yourself." 

Adam  was  so  disarmed  that  he  answered  with  a  percep- 
tible brogue:  "Ah,  sure  I  never  did  anything  worth  talk- 
ing about." 

Miss  Nightingale's  smile  did  not  relinquish  its  place  upon 
her  countenance  as  she  pointed  out:  "You're  very  young 
to  have  done  anything  at  all,  and  really  it  seems  to  me 
you've  done  wonders  on  the  stage." 

"I  haven't  done  badly  and  that's  a  fact,"  Adam  ac- 
quiesced. "It's  not  every  Dublin  boy  of  my  age  that's  mak- 
ing five  hundred  a  year." 

It  was  obvious  from  the  changed  expression  on  Miss 
Nightingale's  face  that  had  she  not  been  so  perfectly  well- 
bred  she  would  have  gaped  with  astonishment.  Her  voice 
betrayed  her  a  little  as  she  repeated :  "Five  hundred  a  year  ? 
What  waste  of  money!" 

Adam  was  hurt  by  this  sentence  and  asked  her  if  she 
really  thought  so. 

"Well,  frankly,  isn't  it  waste  to  pay  anybody  five  hun- 
dred a  year  for  acting  in  such  a  play?"  She  strengthened 
her  appeal  by  winningly  appending:  "And,  of  course,  it's 
still  worse  waste  of  talent  for  you  to  play  in  it." 

Adam's  eyes  moistened.  "There's  something  in  that,"  he 
murmured,  and  felt  quite  sorry  for  himself.  His  accent 
grew  more  English  in  its  note  of  appeal :  "I've  got  to  work 
for  my  living." 

He  found  Miss  Nightingale's  tone  less  sympathetic  as 
she  replied:  "You  feel  that  you  are  working  for  your  liv- 
ing? I  had  an  impression  that  was  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary." 


164.  IN  LONDON 

Adam  tossed  his  head.  "There  is  a  bagatelle  be- 
sides .  .  ." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Miss  Nightingale. 

Adam  suddenly  felt  that  he  wished  he  had  never  seen 
her,  but  a  smile  won  him  back  to  her.  "Mr.  Macarthy 
may  have  told  you,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  a  little  money 
sent  to  me  by  some  one,  but  it's  not  near  enough  to  keep 
me  .  .  ."  He  would  have  corrected  himself,  but  his  hos- 
tess delicately  anticipated  the  effort. 

"You  find  it  not  nearly  enough  to  keep  you?"  she  said. 

"Not  nearly  enough,"  Adam  repeated.  "London,"  he 
explained,  "is  more  expensive  than  Dublin,  and,  of  course, 
besides,  when  a  fellow's  grown  up  he  wants  all  the  money 
he  can  get." 

"We  all  of  us  want  all  the  money  we  can  get,  but  we 
don't  all  get  it,"  said  Miss  Nightingale  with  what  seemed 
to  Adam  a  faint  echo  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  manner,  but  he 
at  once  detected  the  lacuna  in  her  argument. 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  schoolmaster,  and  he  took  it.  "We 
all  get  what  we  can  get,"  he  pointed  out. 

It  was  disappointing  to  hear  Miss  Nightingale  say:  "Do 
we?  I  think  not,"  and  he  realized  that  perhaps  his  re- 
partee had  missed  fire. 

"I  meant  to  say  we  all  can  get  what  we  get,"  he  said. 

"Obviously,"  Miss  Nightingale  agreed,  "what  of  it?" 

Again  Adam  felt  that  his  affection  for  her  was  diminish- 
ing, but  he  could  not  help  liking  the  look  of  her.  "I've 
forgotten  what  we  were  talking  about,"  he  said  simply. 

Once  more  Miss  Nightingale  smiled  benignly.  "If  you 
do  that  at  your  age,"  said  she,  "what  will  you  do  at  mine  ?" 

"Come,"  Adam  answered  chivalrously,  "you're  not  so 
old  as  all  that!" 

"All  what?"  queried  Miss  Nightingale;  a  singularly  baf- 
fling question. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  WESTMINSTER       165 

Adam  smiled  broadly  in  her  face.  "You  remind  me  of 
Mr.  Macarthy." 

"And  you  remind  me  of  Mr.  Macarthy,"  she  said,  and 
added  hastily :  "And,  of  course,  all  sorts  of  other  people." 

Here  Adam  again  saw  a  chance  to  score.  "What  sorts 
of  other  people?" 

Miss  Nightingale  laughed  outright,  and  so  failed  to  score 
before  Adam  thought  of  another  effective  blow,  which  he 
put  in  just  in  time.  "I  can't  imagine  any  one  like  Mr. 
Macarthy  being  like  any  one  else." 

His  hostess  looked  at  him  this  time  with  unmistakable 
admiration.  "You  really  are  a  clever  child,"  she  said. 

Adam  was  too  pleased  with  the  adjective  to  quarrel 
with  the  noun.  "My  grandfather,"  said  he,  "was  a  very 
intellectual  man." 

Miss  Nightingale  instantly  sobered.  "It  seems  a  pity 
that  you  did  not  take  up  a  more  intellectual  profession." 

Adam  crossed  his  legs  with  the  air  of  a  man  of  the 
world.  "Well,  my  grandfather's  profession  wasn't  very 
intellectual,  you  know.  .  .  ."  He  made  a  great  effort: 
"He  was  just  a  beau  sabreur" 

"A  what?"  asked  Miss  Nightingale. 

For  this  question  Adam  was  quite  unprepared,  and  he 
was  not  unconscious  of  the  lameness  of  his  reply  as  he 
said :  "The  French  for  a  beautiful  swordsman." 

"How  interesting,"  Miss  Nightingale  declared  with  dubi- 
ous innocence.  "I  fence  a  little  myself.  Do  you?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Adam.  "Mr.  Sackville  and  I  went 
in  for  it  a  little."  Mr.  Sackville,  who  did  well  everything 
connected  with  his  profession,  had  in  fact  given  him  a 
lesson,  and  would  have  given  him  more  had  not  Adam 
found  it  dull  to  be  poked  by  his  friend  without  succeeding 
in  poking  him,  for  even  when  the  elder  actor's  amiability 
had  frequently  thrown  him  off  his  guard,  Adam  had  failed 


166  IN  LONDON 

to  notice  it.  He  added  thoughtfully:  "I  like  Mr.  Sack- 
ville." 

Miss  Nightingale  seemed  almost  to  resent  the  note  of 
patronage  in  the  last  words.  "Mr.  Sackville  is  a  very  lov- 
able man,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  he  is,"  said  Adam  judiciously,  "but  I  couldn't 
feel  for  him  as  I  do  for  Mr.  Macarthy;  could  you?" 

Miss  Nightingale  rose  to  press  the  bell  before  she  an- 
swered: "I  suppose  they  are  different  in  some  ways." 

Adam  was  annoyed  at  the  notion  of  Mr.  Sackville  being 
put  on  a  parity  with  his  guardian.  "Sackville's  a  jolly  nice 
actor,"  he  said,  "and  a  jolly  nice  fellow,  but  there's  nothing 
in  him,  is  there?" 

Miss  Nightingale  hesitated.  "It's  hardly  for  a  woman 
to  say  whether  there's  anything  in  a  man  or  not  unless  she 
really  knows  him  very  well  indeed." 

"But  you  must  know  Arthur  Sackville  through  and 
through,"  said  Adam.  "He  simply  worships  the  ground 
you  walk  upon." 

His  hostess  frowned.  "Please  don't  say  such  ridiculous 
things  to  me.  Mr.  Sackville  may  be  a  little  sentimental 
about  me,  but  that's  only  because  he's  the  sort  of  man  who 
was  born  full  of  sentiment  and  must  find  somebody  to 
spend  it  on." 

"Anyhow,  he  wanted  to  marry  you,"  Adam  insisted. 

"We'll  not  discuss  that,"  said  Miss  Nightingale  icily. 

Adam  bowed  with  an  air  of  perfect  obedience.  "I  sup- 
pose Mr.  Macarthy  never  did  a  thing  like  that?"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Nightingale's  brows  were  thunder- 
ously angry,  then  her  whole  face,  as  it  were,  exploded  in 
laughter,  and  she  hid  it  in  her  hands.  "You're  a  dreadful 
child,"  she  cried,  "perfectly  dreadful!" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Adam,  "if  I've  been  rude.  I 
assure  you  I  didn't  mean  it.  But  I  am  most  awfully  inter- 
ested in  what  they  call  .  .  ."  He  tried  to  think  of  the 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  WESTMINSTER       167 

word  "psycho-analysis,"  but  couldn't,  blurting  out  instead: 
"Physical  affinity." 

Miss  Nightingale's  eyes  slowly  appeared  between  her 
fingers,  and  her  tone  was  deliberate  as  she  said :  "You  and 
I  would  get  on  better,  I  imagine,  if  you  troubled  to  think 
what  you  were  going  to  say  before  you  said  it." 

It  seemed  to  Adam  that  he  felt  the  blood  in  his  toes 
creeping  up  his  legs  and  body  until  it  reached  his  brain 
where,  finding  it  could  go  no  farther,  it  bubbled  him  into 
dumbness:  it  added  to  his  confusion  to  know  that  he 
looked  as  if  some  such  accident  had  befallen  his  circula- 
tion. He  found  himself  staring  at  his  wrist-watch,  and 
without  gaining  the  smallest  information  from  his  study  of 
it,  murmured  in  a  voice  he  did  not  recognize  as  his  own 
that  he  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 

"I  suppose  it  is  getting  rather  late,"  said  Miss  Night- 
ingale. "You  see,  you've  kept  me  so  interested  that,  like 
yourself,  I  forgot  about  the  time." 

Adam  pouted  at  her  reproachfully.  "And  yet  you  say 
we  don't  get  on?" 

With  curved  lips  she  answered:  "I  said  nothing  of  the 
kind.  I  threw  out  a  flattering  hint  how  we  might  get  on 
yet  better." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  and  they  faced  each  other  with  latent 
mockery:  she  determined  to  keep  him  in  his  place,  he  re- 
coiling to  leap  from  it.  He  felt  that  she  lived  in  a  world 
whose  air  he  could  not  breathe,  but  he  longed  to  skim  its 
surface  in  leaps  and  bounds,  partly  for  the  pleasure  of  it 
and  partly  from  curiosity.  One  thirst  he  felt  he  must  sat- 
isfy before  he  went:  he  sought  his  end  subtly.  "What  do 
you  think  of  Mrs.  Onsin?"  he  asked. 

"Who  is  that?"  queried  Miss  Nightingale. 

"I  believe  she  is  Mr.  Onsin's  wife,"  said  Adam. 

Miss  Nightingale  brushed  beautiful  fingers  across  her 
forehead.  "Oh!  a  person  called  Isabelle  Something,  you 


168  IN  LONDON 

mean?  I've  only  seen  her  once  and  I  don't  remember  any- 
thing about  her  except  that  she  was  disgustingly  vulgar, 
like  everything  else  in  the  play,  except  poor  dear  Arthur 
Sackville.  He  can't  be  vulgar  even  when  it's  necessary." 

Adam  looked  at  her  roguishly:  "I  think  I  know,  all  the 
same,"  said  he,  "that  you  rather  fancied  Oswald  Onsin 
himself." 

"If  I  did,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "I  must  have  fancied 
that  he  was  even  worse  than  his  wife." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 
THE  PROBLEM  OF  MARRIAGE 

WITH  temperate  cordiality  Miss  Nightingale  bade  Adam 
farewell  at  the  door  of  her  flat.  "You  know  your  way," 
she  said  smilingly,  but  he  thought  there  was  an  under- 
current of  suggestion  that  he  had  better  not  presume  upon 
that  knowledge. 

His  last  words  to  her  were,  he  felt  afterwards,  not  well 
chosen :  "I  notice  you  have  no  lift." 

She  replied:  "You  are  very  observant;  we  cannot  afford 
one  in  this  house,  but  of  course  there  are  others."  Adam 
felt  that  she  had  an  almost  snobbish  gift  of  charging  in- 
genuousness with  a  breach  of  manners.  He  half  suspected 
that  she  knew  the  secret  of  his  parentage  and  was  eternally 
prepared  to  use  the  knowledge  against  him,  albeit  unwill- 
ing to  admit  that  such  scapegraces  as  Byron  O'Toole  and 
Bride  Macfadden  could  exist.  He  summed  her  up  as  an 
exquisite,  if  somewhat  too  high-browed  lady;  he  opined 
that  if  she  had  a  brother  he  would  wear  an  outsize  in  hats. 

Yet,  as  he  descended  the  staircase,  it  was  her  charm 
that  worked  within  him.  He  said  to  himself  that  the  ef- 
frontery of  her  denial  of  interest  in  Oswald  Onsin  was  a 
triumph  of  subtle  dissimulation  of  passion.  At  the  same 
time  he  wondered  whether  perhaps  after  all  Mr.  Sackville 
might  not  be  what  his  real  and  his  putative  father  had 
agreed  in  calling  each  other  when  at  variance  on  things  of 
the  mind.  He  suddenly  wondered,  as  he  reached  the  street 
and  saw  Bentley's  red  creation  looming  heavenward  over 
his  head,  what  on  earth  was  Miss  Nightingale's  object  in 
sending  for  him.  Once  before  she  had  done  so,  but  that 

169 


170  IN  LONDON 

was  at  the  instigation  of  the  Marchesa,  who  was  the  con- 
nection by  marriage  of  her  friend  Lady  Derrydown.  .  .  . 
Did  Miss  Nightingale  know  by  intuition,  as  she  called  it, 
that  he  was  a  member  of  that  noble  family?  .  .  .  He  sel- 
dom thought  of  it  himself;  for  he  was  more  interested  in 
his  grandfather,  the  romantic  baronet,  than  in  his  grand- 
mother, the  unkempt  offspring  of  an  Irish  Earl.  He  hardly 
thought  an  Irish  peerage  sufficiently  distinguished  to  com- 
pensate for  the  Marchesa's  faults  of  style.  .  .  .  He  re- 
membered that  even  Caroline  Brady,  the  shopgirl,  had  the 
air  of  looking  down  on  her  as  an  enemy  of  decent  society. 
And  although  he  had  at  once  perceived  that  Caroline's 
attitude  could  not  be  sustained,  it  somehow  had  perma- 
nently left  him  ashamed  of  his  grandmother  ...  he 
thought  of  her  as  some  one  with  whom  Caroline  could  not 
bring  herself  to  associate.  .  .  .  And  now  Caroline  and  the 
Marchesa  were  associates  in  death,  and  if  one  were  to 
credit  the  letter  of  the  faith  that  had  built  Bentley's  cathe- 
dral for  his  glory  and  God's,  the  pair  of  them  were  now 
roasting  in  hell.  Caroline  through  his  fault  and  the  Mar- 
chesa through  his  grandfather's.  Therefore  Caroline's 
perdition  lay  in  some  measure  at  the  Marchesa's  door.  .  .  . 
But  what  would  that  matter  to  the  Marchesa  since  she  was 
clearly  hopelessly  damned  anyhow  as  a  suicide?  ...  Or 
perhaps  did  her  guardian  angel  argue  for  her  in  heaven,  as 
her  relatives'  advocate  on  earth,  that  she  had  died  through 
misadventure?  .  .  .  He  found  himself  smiling  at  the  no- 
tion, and  at  the  consternation  of  Satan  should  he  be  made 
responsible  for  that  lady's  future. 

In  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  the  enormous  building 
gleamed  scarlet  as  Mephistopheles ;  it  seemed  to  him  to 
threaten  London  with  a  red  revival  of  obscurantism.  It 
was  almost  a  consolation  to  recall  that  it  was  not  yet  paid 
for.  He  had  an  impression  from  his  youth  that  churches 
never  were  paid  for,  but  remained  a  pious  excuse  for 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  MARRIAGE  171 

breaches  of  the  Lottery  Act.  He  recalled  that  his  mother 
had  won  a  bottle  of  whisky  with  a  church  bazaar  ticket 
which  she  had  purchased  in  a  moment  of  exaltation.  He 
wondered  if  the  contributions  of  Catholics  no  more  spir- 
itual than  his  mother  had  been  declined,  whether  the  cam- 
panile of  Bentley's  cathedral  would  have  towered  so  au- 
thoritatively over  Westminster.  He  could  perceive  that  it 
was  a  nobler  projection  of  Byzantine  architecture  than  Mr. 
Oswald  Onsin's  theater,  but  almost  equally  remote  from 
every  idea  that  bowed  his  knee  to  the  name  of  Jesus.  At 
eighteen,  and  as  a  successful  London  actor,  his  heart 
warmed  as  hotly  to  the  Holy  Name  as  when  he  was  a 
ragamuffin  of  eight.  But  that  architectural  masterpiece  at 
Westminster  left  all  but  his  eye  as  dissatisfied  as  that 
masonic  miscarriage,  the  Dublin  pro-Cathedral  wherein 
sturdier  presters  had  battered  out  of  recognition  the  image 
of  his  Saviour  begotten  in  his  mind  by  Father  Innocent. 

From  these  teleological  dreams  he  was  roused  by  the 
roar  of  Victoria  Street  welcoming  him  back  to  the  world 
which  the  war  had  not  yet  robbed  of  all  appearance  of 
reality.  Not  having  known  the  Metropolis  in  pre-war  days, 
he  took  the  scene  before  him  as  typical.  In  the  mechanic 
of  life  and  all  the  exterior  things  of  human  existence, 
London  even  on  the  Sunday  summer  evening  in  war-time 
seemed  more  vital  than  Dublin  in  its  busiest  hour.  On  the 
other  hand  the  mentality  of  London  seemed  to  him  so  far 
a  feeble  thing.  Miss  Nightingale,  for  example,  was  a  beau- 
tiful, and  he  supposed  a  brilliant  lady;  he  was  prepared  to 
believe  that  she  lived  half  in  heaven,  but  he  was  certain 
that  the  other  half  never  touched  earth.  He  deemed  Mr. 
Sackville's  passion  for  her  almost  farcical  in  its  fatuity. 
.  .  .  And  yet  he  saw  clearly  that  he  might  fall  in  love  with 
Miss  Nightingale  himself  .  .  .  and  yet  again  he  asked  him- 
self, why  did  she  want  him  to  call  upon  her?  He  had 
nothing  whatever  in  common  with  Miss  Nightingale,  for  it 


172  IN  LONDON 

was  his  topmost  passion  to  realize  the  meaning  of  things 
as  they  are,  while  she  seemed  intent  on  creating  for  herself 
an  atmosphere  of  superficially  reasonable  unreality.  At 
this  time  Adam  did  not  carry  in  his  mind  the  word  par- 
thenogenesis, but  it  contained  the  idea  that  Miss  Nightin- 
gale's roses  were  parthenogenetically  brought  forth  by  her 
florist  and  her  mutton  cutlets  by  her  cook.  No  doubt  if 
she  was  in  love  with  Oswald  Onsin  it  was  because  of  some 
quality  that  she  imagined  she  had  seen  in  him.  .  .  .  Yet 
it  did  seem  absurd  that  a  woman  who  had  lived  on  friendly 
terms  with  Mr.  Macarthy  should  condescend  to  waste  any 
emotion  over  the  manager  of  the  Grand  Theater.  .  .  . 
Could  it  be  because  he  was  in  daily  touch  with  Mr.  Onsin 
that  Miss  Nightingale  had  sent  for  him?  Or  could  it  be 
that  having  met  him  at  Lady  Derrydown's  she  really  was 
impressed  with  Adam  and  desirous  of  his  company  on  his 
own  merits?  After  all,  at  the  Muses  Club  he  had  heard 
of  comparatively  mature  women  being  in  love  with  young 
men.  .  .  .  There  was  the  leading  case  of  Lady  Bland  and 
Mr.  Tinkler:  he  calculated  that  the  difference  between 
Lady  Eland's  age  and  Mr.  Tinkler's  was  no  more  dispro- 
portionate than  Miss  Nightingale's  age  and  his  own  .  .  . 
and  Miss  Nightingale  was  unmarried.  .  .  .  That  night, 
waking  and  dreaming,  he  sought  the  reasons  why  Miss 
Nightingale  had  remained  so  long  unmarried.  Heretofore 
he  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  old  maids  were  women 
who  had  never  a  chance  to  be  rid  of  their  maidenness,  with 
the  exception  of  perhaps  a  few,  who  through  vanity  or  mis- 
fortune had  missed  their  chance,  but  he  could  not  doubt 
that  Miss  Nightingale  might  have  married  again  and  again 
even  had  there  been  no  sentimental  Sackvilles  pledged  to 
her  worship.  He  wondered  if  one  day  Miss  Nightingale 
might  say  to  Mr.  Sackville  that  she  surrendered,  and 
whether  Mr.  Sackville  would  in  that  event  survive  the  hour 
of  victory.  He  supposed  that  Mr.  Sackville  must  have  the 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  MARRIAGE  173 

same  feeling  for  Miss  Nightingale  as  he  himself  had  for 
Josephine,  only  perhaps  rather  more  so;  for  although  he 
longed  continuously  for  Josephine,  his  desire  for  her  was 
never  so  acute  as  his  occasional  pangs  of  hunger  at  the 
sudden  mention  of  the  name  of  Barbara.  ...  It  was  odd 
that  he  had  heard  nothing  of  Barbara  since  the  Marchesa 
had  confided  to  him  the  scarcely  credible  tale  of  her  rela- 
tions with  her  husband. 

He  wrote  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  whom  he  had  not  seen  now 
for  a  whole  year,  telling  him  of  his  visit  to  Miss  Nightin- 
gale and  asking  in  a  postscript  how  the  Carahars  were 
getting  on.  Mr.  Macarthy  replied  that  he  was  glad  to  think 
of  him  in  the  company  of  Miss  Nightingale,  and  that  he 
saw  nothing  of  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar,  and  understood  that 
her  husband  saw  very  little  more.  There  was  a  rumor  that 
Mrs.  Burns  meditated  going  to  London  to  do  war  work 
and  had  invited  her  daughter  to  accompany  her  as  chap- 
eron. "If  Mrs.  Burns  goes  into  munitions  in  London,  it 
might  be  as  well  for  you  to  go  on  tour,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
said,  and  Adam  was  not  quite  sure  whether  this  joke  did 
not  conceal  a  note  of  warning.  He  had  long  suspected 
that  his  guardian  did  not  wish  him  and  Barbara  to  come  in 
contact  now  that  she  was  a  married  woman.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  persuaded  himself  that  it  would  be  pleasing  to  his 
guardian  if  he  lost  no  time  in  calling  on  Miss  Nightingale 
again,  so  the  following  Sunday  he  did  so,  and  although 
this  time  uninvited,  she  seemed  genuinely  pleased  to  wel- 
come him. 

Considering  that  he  had  seen  it  but  once  before,  the  gray 
room  seemed  full  of  familiar  gestures,  and  the  fresh  roses 
poised  above  the  white  china  bowed  to  him  gracefully  as 
though  to  imply  that  they  had  heard  of  him  from  their 
predecessors.  He  found  himself  wondering  whether  it 
might  not  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  go  on  living  till  the  end 
of  time  in  such  a  suite  of  apartments  as  Miss  Nightingale 


174  IN  LONDON 

hallowed  with  her  presence.  ...  It  occurred  to  him  that 
she  resembled  at  once  the  Belle  dame  sans  merci  of  his  first 
abstract  love,  in  as  much  as  she  repelled  all  advances  (un- 
less, indeed,  Mr.  Onsin's?)  and  the  Blessed  Damozel  of  the 
pre-Raphaelites  in  that  she  might  yet  reward  some  perfect 
gentle  knight,  ignoring  Mr.  Onsin's  kisses  on  her  lips  .  .  . 
and  Adam,  looking  at  her,  found  it  incredible  that  Mr. 
Onsin  should  have  so  far  ventured.  If  Jane  Nightingale 
had  been  kissed,  and  he  could  not  visualize  the  kissing  of 
her  even  by  himself,  though  practised  in  fanciful  victories 
...  it  was  certain  that  the  creator  of  Lord  Algy  was  not 
the  man.  Whatever  Mr.  Sackville  might  think  he  knew 
about  her,  Adam  once  for  all  refused  to  believe  that  ten- 
dresses  in  any  shape  or  form  had  passed  between  his  host- 
ess and  the  author  of  What  Rot!  .  .  .  He  remembered 
now  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  implied  ridicule  of  the  idea 
in  his  only  reference  to  the  subject.  .  .  .  The  Blessed 
Damozel  could  not  condescend  to  such  as  Mr.  Onsin,  and 
Miss  Nightingale  looked  the  Blessed  Damozel  to  the  life, 
if  her  Damozellery  (he  coined  the  word)  was  what  Mr. 
Pirn  of  the  Muses  Club  was  wont  to  call  "a  bit  passy." 
Truly  she  was  a  desirable  creature,  with  the  physical  equi- 
poise of  a  sexless  archangel  and  the  mental  aloofness  of  a 
womanly  woman.  "I  have  come  to  ask  your  advice,"  said 
Adam. 

He  thought  Miss  Nightingale  looked  pleased.  "My  dear 
boy,"  said  she,  "what  about?" 

Adam  was  not  quite  sure  what  was  the  subject  upon 
which  he  wished  to  consult  Miss  Nightingale,  but  he 
thought  this  a  good  opening  to  any  interrogatory  he  might 
summon  up  the  courage  to  put  to  her;  for  he  would  ap- 
pear to  be  disclosing  his  affairs  to  her  when  in  fact  he 
was  prying  into  her  own.  Not  that  Adam  ever  applied 
the  term  "prying"  to  his  inquisition  into  other  people's 
business,  and  in  a  sense  he  was  justified,  for  his  was  not 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  MARRIAGE  175 

vulgar  prying;  his  curiosity  being  never  idle  but  always 
inspired  by  an  unselfish,  interest  in  the  meaning  of  life. 
Miss  Nightingale  was  so  utterly  unlike  any  woman  whom 
he  had  ever  met  that  he  felt  justified  at  all  costs  in  pene- 
trating the  secret  of  the  difference  between  her  and  her 
frailer  sisters.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  said  he  with  suf- 
ficient solemnity,  "whether  you  think  I  ought  to  get  mar- 
ried?" 

He  was  quite  prepared  for  Miss  Nightingale  to  laugh  at 
him,  but  she  kept  a  serious  countenance  without  apparent 
effort  as  she  said:  "It  is  strange  that  you  should  ask  me 
that." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Adam  lightly,  "I  feel  that  no  one 
could  give  me  better  advice." 

Miss  Nightingale  looked  at  him  very  gravely.  "Why 
do  you  feel  that?" 

"Because,"  said  Adam,  returning  her  glance  with  equal 
gravity,  "I  do  know  that  in  many  ways  you  are  wiser 
than  I." 

Miss  Nightingale  shrugged  her  shoulders,  or  rather  al- 
lowed them  ever  so  gracefully  to  rise  and  fall.  "I  am 
several  years  older  than  you,"  said  she,  "but  it  is  as  im- 
possible for  me  to  understand  things  from  a  man's  point 
of  view  as  it  is  for  a  man  to  understand  things  from  a 
woman's  point  of  view." 

"But  is  that  so  impossible?"  Adam  argued.  "I  cannot 
imagine  any  point  of  view  that  Mr.  Macarthy  wouldn't 
understand." 

Miss  Nightingale  smiled  with  just  a  suspicion  of  bitter- 
ness. "Can't  you?"  said  she.  "Then  perhaps  it  may  in- 
terest you  to  know  that  much  as  I  like  him,  he  and  I  have 
failed  signally  to  understand  one  another." 

"Perhaps  that  was  a  long  time  ago?"  Adam  promptly 
suggested. 

"It  would  seem  a  long  time  ago  to  you,"  Miss  Nightin- 


176  IN  LONDON 

gale  gently  replied.  "To  me  it  seems  only  yesterday,  but 
in  any  case,  however  long  since  the  original  misunder- 
standing, we  have  never  got  rid  of  it." 

"But,"  Adam  protested,  "I  thought  you  were  such  good 
friends?" 

Miss  Nightingale  found  something  wrong  with  the  lid  of 
her  tea-pot  and  became  so  interested  in  it  that  her  very 
conversation  appeared  to  be  addressed  to  it.  "I  think  I 
have  no  better  friend  in  the  world  than  Stephen  Ma- 
carthy,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  sure  that  he  has  no  more 
faithful  friend  than  I.  But  there  is  at  least  one  subject 
on  which  he  and  I  utterly  disagree." 

Adam  felt  that  he  had  struck  oil.  "Of  course  I  wouldn't 
on  any  account  intrude,"  said  he,  "but  may  I  ask  what 
that  is?" 

After  a  pause  she  answered :  "I  wonder  that  you  do  not 
know  that  it  is  the  very  subject  upon  which  you  wish  to 
consult  me." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 
THE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED 

As  Adam  listened  to  Miss  Nightingale  he  felt  his  brain 
hot  in  pursuit  of  an  idea,  and  almost  prayed  the  gods  that 
he  might  not  lose  the  chase  through  overrunning  it.  "The 
subject  of  marriage?"  he  questioned,  and  as  Miss  Nightin- 
gale lowered  her  chin  in  silent  acquiescence  he  assured  her 
that  he  would  never  have  guessed  that  Mr.  Macarthy  did 
not  share  her  views. 

Miss  Nightingale  glanced  at  him,  not  perhaps  without 
suspicion.  "Do  you  know  what  my  views  are?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  I  know  you  well  enough  to  guess,"  said  Adam, 
"that  your  view  of  marriage  would  be  a  very  beautiful 
one,  and  so  I  thought  that  Mr.  Macarthy  would  be  sure 
to  agree  with  it." 

Miss  Nightingale  said  firmly:  "Mr.  Macarthy's  view  of 
marriage  and  mine  are  diametrically  opposed." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Adam,  "wonders  will  never  cease," 
and  tried  to  remember  if  Mr.  Macarthy  had  ever  said  any- 
thing to  indicate  what  his  view  of  marriage  might  be.  He 
had  always  supposed  that  Mr.  Macarthy's  view  of  mar- 
riage was  the  same  as  his  own:  likewise  he  had  taken  it 
for  granted  that  Miss  Nightingale's  view  was  the  same  as 
his  own :  he  was  now  a  little  surprised  to  find  that  he  had 
no  view.  Father  Innocent  had  taught  him  that  marriage 
was  a  holy  sacrament,  but  his  experience  failed  to  give  him 
any  example  of  a  marriage  corresponding  with  this  de- 
scription. For  himself  he  had  wanted  to  marry  Josephine, 
he  had  wanted  to  marry  Barbara,  and  when  Caroline  was 

177 


i;8  IN  LONDON 

dead  he  had  talked  of  wanting  to  marry  her  until  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy  had  a  little  harshly  cleared  away  that  illusion.  But 
he  certainly  had  the  impression  that  at  one  time  his  guard- 
ian would  have  wished  him  to  marry  Barbara  Burns.  .  .  . 
At  last,  critically  considering  his  hostess's  cold,  clear-cut 
features,  he  hazarded  the  guess :  "I  suppose  you  think  peo- 
ple ought  not  to  marry  at  all?" 

Miss  Nightingale  was  apparently  startled  into  immediate 
rejoinder:  "On  the  contrary,  I  think  everybody  ...  al- 
most everybody,  ought  to  marry." 

"Then  why  didn't  you?"  asked  Adam  point  blank. 

Miss  Nightingale's  tone  turned  to  marble  as  she  an- 
swered: "I  did  not  say  that  everybody  ought  to  marry,  I 
said  almost  everybody;  which  reminds  me  that  you  asked 
me,  before  we  got  on  to  this  unfortunate  question,  whether 
you  ought  to  marry." 

"Did  I?"  said  Adam  absent-mindedly.  He  pinched  him- 
self to  add,  while  she  still  stared  at  him:  "It's  extraordi- 
nary the  way  you  take  me  out  of  myself.  I  wanted  to  ask 
you  about  my  being  married,  and  now  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing but  about  your  being  married." 

Miss  Nightingale  suppressed  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  "I 
don't  think  I  broached  that  subject." 

"Didn't  you?"  said  Atiam.  "Then  I  suppose  it  must 
have  been  a  sort  of  telepathy." 

Miss  Nightingale  almost  frowned.  "What  must  have 
been  a  sort  of  telepathy?" 

"My  thinking,"  Adam  explained,  "that  you  wanted  to  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"Do  you  talk  like  this  to  everybody?"  Miss  Nightingale 
demanded. 

Adam  replied  with  truth  that  this  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  touched  upon  such  delicate  ground  with  a  lady. 
He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  add  that  this  was  his  first 
opportunity. 


THE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED       179 

True,  Miss  Durward  had  a  way  of  turning  the  conver- 
sation on  more  or  less  matrimonial  topics ;  but  with  her  he 
was  rather  on  his  defense,  and  if  forced  to  answer  her 
points,  merely  followed  where  she  led.  He  had  nothing 
to  learn  from  Miss  Durward  that  he  really  wished  to 
know,  but  Miss  Nightingale  filled  him  with  an  almost 
saintly  curiosity:  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  might  have 
something  to  reveal  which  could  change  the  whole  tenor 
of  his  life.  She  stood  for  the  one  vein  of  refinement  run- 
ning through  this  vulgar  London  of  the  stage  and  streets, 
which  was  all  he  yet  knew  of  the  metropolis.  After  Mr. 
Macarthy  she  seemed  to  him  the  most  refined  person  in 
the  world,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  came  first  only  by  reason  of 
his  obviously  superior  intellect.  Miss  Nightingale  had  the 
refinement  of  one  for  whom  common  things  have  no  exist- 
ence :  Mr.  Macarthy,  ignoring  nothing,  had  eliminated  them 
from  his  environment:  surely  he  and  Miss  Nightingale 
were  intended  by  Providence  to  agree?  .  .  .  He  said  so  to 
Miss  Nightingale. 

She  seemed  at  once  flustered  and  pleased:  "Have  I  not 
told  you  that  we  disagree?" 

"But  what  do  you  disagree  about?"  he  insisted. 

"I  have  said  more  than  once  that  we  disagree  about  mar- 
riage," she  reiterated,  and  had  almost  an  air  of  being  vexed 
with  him. 

Adam  sought  to  dissipate  it :  "I  know  I  must  seem  dread- 
fully stupid,"  he  explained,  "but  you  see,  you're  quite  my 
ideal  woman.  ...  I  mean  my  ideal  of  what  a  woman 
ought  to  be." 

"You  mustn't  idealize  me,"  his  hostess  murmured. 

"I  don't  idealize  you,"  Adam  gallantly  assured  her.  "I 
only  idealize  women  generally  when  I  think  that  some  of 
them  may  perhaps  resemble  you." 

"I'm  quite  an  ordinary  woman,"  Mjss  Nightingale  said 
in  the  most  modest  tone. 


i8o  IN  LONDON 

Adam  shook  his  head.  "You're  not  that,"  said  he,  "any 
more  than  Mr.  Macarthy  is  an  ordinary  man." 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "why  you 
should  bracket  us  together  in  your  mind." 

As  she  apparently  wished  to  understand  it,  Adam  took 
courage  and  went  on :  "I  think  it  a  great  pity  that  you 
didn't  .  .  .  that  he  didn't  .  .  .  that  you  and  he  .  .  ."  it 
seemed  to  Adam  that  it  was  Mr.  Sackville  and  not  himself 
who  was  making  this  statement,  which  perhaps  by  reason 
of  her  familiarity  with  Mr.  Sackville,  Miss  Nightingale  ac- 
cepted as  complete. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  you  think  that,"  said  she. 

"Did  it  never  enter  into  your  mind  to  marry  him?" 
queried  Adam. 

"I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,"  Miss  Nightingale 
admitted.  "I  have  known  him  a  great  many  years,  and 
all  sorts  of  ideas  may  enter  the  mind  without  making  a 
lasting  impression." 

"And  of  course,"  Adam  suggested,  "there  was  always  the 
man  you  were  in  love  with?" 

Miss  Nightingale  leaned  forward,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
hand,  and  gazed  at  him  wistfully.  "I'm  afraid  I  don't 
follow  you." 

"Well,"  said  Adam  a  trifle  knowingly,  "there  was  .  .  ." 
he  began  to  say  Oswald,  but  turned  his  tongue  off  in  time 
to  form  the  words:  "a  certain  distinguished  dramatist." 

Miss  Nightingale  wearily  shook  her  head.  "Mr.  Ma- 
carthy is,  I  suppose,  in  a  sense  a  dramatist,  but  I  wouldn't 
call  him  very  distinguished.  .  .  .  Who  on  earth  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Adam  felt  nonplussed.  "Mr.  Sackville,"  said  he,  "told 
me  that  you  had  never  thought  of  marriage  because  you 
were  too  much  interested  in  a  witty  and  brilliant  dramatist, 
or  something  of  the  kind." 


THE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED       181 

His  hostess  positively  laughed.  "Poor  Arthur.  .  .  .  He 
really  has  the  most  fantastic  ideas." 

"Has  he?"  Adam  queried,  "he  never  mentioned  them 
to  me." 

Miss  Nightingale  laughed  lightly:  "But  I  understand 
you  to  say  that  he  said  I  was  in  love  with  a  famous 
dramatist  ?" 

"That's  what  I  understood  from  him,"  Adam  nodded. 

Miss  Nightingale's  tone  took  the  note  of  a  cross-exam- 
iner. "Are  you  sure  he  said  anything  of  the  kind?" 

"Something  of  the  kind  certainly,"  Adam  insisted,  "I 
don't  remember  his  words.  .  .  .  You  know  his  habit  of 
leaving  them  out  .  .  .  but  he  really  gave  me  to  understand 
that  you  might  be  in  love  with  Oswald  Onsin." 

Miss  Nightingale  sprang  from  her  chair  like  a  wounded 
antelope.  "How  could  you  believe  such  a  thing?"  she 
cried. 

"I  didn't  know  you  then,"  Adam  stammered;  "that  was 
at  Eastbourne  before  I  even  saw  you.  Of  course  since 
then  I've  thought  it  was  absurd,  but  really  and  truly  that 
seemed  the  idea  that  he  wished  to  convey." 

"But  this  is  monstrous !"  Miss  Nightingale  protested. 
"If  he  ever  said  such  a  thing  he  must  have  been  mad,  for, 
after  all,  he  knows  me  pretty  well  and  never  once  have  I 
said  or  done  anything  that  could  give  color  to  such  a  sug- 
gestion. If  it  were  possible  for  me  to  care  for  an  actor 
at  all,  I  should  far  prefer  poor  Arthur  himself,  who,  after 
all,  is  a  gentleman  in  his  own  limited  way ;  but  as  for  Mr. 
Onsin,  I  can't  stand  him  on  the  stage,  much  less  off  it." 

"Did  you  ever  at  any  time  like  him?"  Adam  suggested, 
"or,"  he  added  with  a  great  inspiration,  "did  you  ever,  just 
to  tease  poor  Mr.  Sackville,  pretend  to  like  him?" 

Miss  Nightingale  frowned.  "I  never  tease  and  I  never 
pretend,"  said  she.  "I  know  nothing  whatever  about  Mr. 


182  IN  LONDON 

Onsin  beyond  seeing  him  play  one  or  two  parts,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  not  very  well,  and  hearing  what  Arthur  Sackville 
had  to  say  about  him.  Good-natured  as  Arthur  is,  he  never 
told  me  anything  that  would  make  me  like  him  any  better." 

After  a  pause  Adam  said:  "Well,  I  suppose  it's  all  my 
stupidity.  Sackville  probably  meant  somebody  else." 

"But  there  is  nobody  else,"  Miss  Nightingale  assured 
him.  "I  never  in  my  life  told  Arthur  I  was  in  love  with 
any  one,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  never  have  been  in 
love  with  any  one,"  she  added:  "I  am  not  likely  to  be  in 
love  with  any  one  now." 

Adam  thought  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  recall  the  terms 
of  his  conversation  with  Mr.  Sackville  on  Beachy  Head. 
At  length  he  said  thoughtfully:  "Can  you  remember  any 
one  who  feels  for  you  the  same  as  John  Brown  did  for 
Queen  Victoria?" 

Miss  Nightingale  colored  charmingly.  "It  is  not  for  me 
to  say  what  John  Brown  felt  for  Queen  Victoria,  but 
Arthur  himself  used  to  tell  me  in  the  early  days  of  our 
acquaintance,  before  he  quite  realized  the  sort  of  woman  I 
am,  that  he  would  always  love  me  as  humbly  and  as  stead- 
fastly as  John  Brown  loved  Queen  Victoria." 

"I  don't  understand  about  John  Brown  loving  Queen 
Victoria,"  Adam  confessed.  "What  had  it  to  do  with  his 
soul  going  marching  on?" 

Miss  Nightingale  reflected  for  some  moments.  "Surely 
there  is  some  mistake,"  said  she,  "you're  thinking  of  the 
American  John  Brown;  Queen  Victoria's  John  Brown  was 
a  Highland  servant." 

"Oh!"  said  Adam,  and  looked  foolish.  After  a  long  re- 
arrangement of  his  ideas  he  went  on  apologetically:  "Per- 
haps after  all  I've  misunderstood  everything  that  Mr.  Sack- 
ville told  me  about  you.  .  .  .  Except,  of  course,  that  he 
was  very  much  in  love  with  you  himself."  He  looked  at 
her:  "That  is  true,  isn't  it?" 


[THE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED       183 

"Poor  Arthur  thinks  it's  true,"  Miss  Nightingale  said, 
"or  at  all  events  he  tells  me  that  he  thinks  it's  true,  but  he 
would  probably  soon  tire  of  me  if  we  were  man  and  wife." 

"Why  should  he  tire  of  you?"  Adam  asked,  in  a  tone 
that  implied  his  confidence  that  his  hostess  would  prove 
many-sided  as  Cleopatra. 

"Frankly,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "I  should  be  bored  to 
death  by  him,  and  my  weariness  could  hardly  fail  to  react 
even  on  a  man  so  amiable.  We  should  end  up  as  cat  and 
dog." 

Again  Adam  shook  his  head :  "I  cannot  see  you  as  a  cat 
or  a  dog,"  he  said. 

Miss  Nightingale  laughed  softly.  "I  have  both  cat  and 
dog  in  me,"  she  said,  "particularly  cat,  and  so  has  every 
woman,  no  matter  how  artfully  she  cages  it.  ...  You'll 
find  that  if  you  ever  marry." 

Adam  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "I  don't  suppose  I  ever 
shall." 

Miss  Nightingale  turned  quizzical,  perhaps  to  hide  dis- 
appointment. "But  you  came  here  to  talk  to  me  about  get- 
ting married?" 

"Yes,"  said  Adam,  "I  did,  but  you've  driven  the  notion 
quite  out  of  my  mind." 

Miss  Nightingale  looked  alarmed.  "I  don't  under- 
stand .  .  ." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Adam,  "but  so  it  is." 

"But  you  really  mustn't  think  that  I  disapprove  of  mar-  'p 
riage,"  Miss  Nightingale  asserted  nervously.     "I  think  it's 
entirely  beautiful  when  the  right  man  marries  the  right 
woman,  only  that  happens  so  very  seldom.  ...  I  some-j 
times  wonder  whether  it  has  ever  happened." 

"Then,"  said  Adam,  "you've  never  met  the  right  man?" 

Miss  Nightingale  shifted  in  her  chair.  "No,  certainly 
not,  not  in  the  sense  you  mean.  ...  At  any  rate  I  have 
always  considered  that  marriage  is  out  of  the  question  for 


184  IN  LONDON 

me.  My  temperament  doesn't  lend  itself  to  marriage,  and 
the  women  most  like  myself  among  my  friends  who  mar- 
ried, rather  made  a  mess  of  it,  I'm  afraid;  they  expected 
too  much  of  their  husbands." 

"What  exactly  did  they  expect?"  Adam  asked  pointblank. 

"For  one  thing,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "they  expected 
them  to  be  faithful." 

"And  weren't  they?"  Adam  asked,  mildly  surprised. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Nightingale  sternly,  "they  were  not. 
...  I  mean  they  were  not  as  faithful  as  they  ought  to 
have  been." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  and  "Ah!"  said  Adam.  "You 
mean  .  .  .?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  mean,"  said  Miss  Nightingale  with 
the  air  of  waking  from  a  trance,  "this  is  a  subject  you  are 
far  too  young  for  me  to  discuss  with  you." 

"But  Mr.  Macarthy  discusses  every  subject  with  me," 
Adam  claimed,  not  quite  truthfully. 

"I  am  not  Mr.  Macarthy,"  said  Miss  Nightingale  flatly. 

"No,"  Adam  rejoined,  "but  you  know  I  cannot  help 
feeling  that  you  might  very  well  be  Mrs.  Macarthy." 

His  hostess  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "Talk  of 
teasing  people,"  she  said.  "It  seems  to  me  that  you  do 
nothing  else." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Adam  innocently,  "but  I  don't 
at  all  follow.  You  can't  mean  that  I'm  teasing  you  by 
talking  as  if  you  were  my  guardian's  wife?  ...  It  isn't 
as  if  you'd  wanted  to  be  his  wife." 

"I  did  not  say  that  it  was,"  said  Miss  Nightingale 
sternly. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Adam  confidentially,  "Mr. 
Macarthy  is  so  queer  in  some  ways  that  I  don't  know  for  a 
positive  fact  whether  he's  married  or  single." 

"You  may  take  it  from  me,"  said  Miss  Nightingale, 
"that  he  is  not  married." 


JHE  PROBLEM  REMAINS  UNSOLVED       185 

"I  can't  help  thinking  it  odd,"  said  Adam,  "that  you 
should  both  be  unmarried." 

Miss  Nightingale  looked  at  him  a  little  distrustfully.  "If 
Mr.  Macarthy  discusses  everything  with  you,  as  you  say, 
it  seems  odd  that  you  should  not  know  that  he  does  not 
believe  in  marriage  at  all." 

Adam  shook  his  head,  dumbfounded.  "I  never  heard 
him  say  a  word  to  that  effect,"  said  he. 

"Then  it  is  quite  obvious  that  he  does  not  discuss  every- 
thing with  you,"  said  Miss  Nightingale. 

Adam  thought  he  saw  a  ray  of  light,  deeming  that  Bar- 
bara's marriage  with  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  had  dis- 
gusted his  guardian  with  matrimony.  "When  did  he  tell 
you  that  he  was  against  marriage?" 

"Before  you  were  born,"  said  Miss  Nightingale. 

Events  anterior  to  his  birth  and  not  bearing  directly 
upon  himself  always  appeared  to  Adam  outside  the  range 
of  useful  discussion.  So,  feeling  that  he  had  elicited  from 
his  hostess  all  that  he  might  well  draw  from  her  upon 
this  occasion,  he  presently  took  his  leave.  But  on  the 
threshold  he  said:  "I'm  afraid  you  must  find  me  a  terrible 
little  bore." 

And  to  his  delight  she  answered  with  her  most  urbane 
smile:  "You  are  the  most  interesting  person  I've  ever  met, 
except  one." 

Adam  cocked  his  chin,  and  he  knew  his  eyes  shone  as  he 
cried :  "It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  say  that." 

"And  awfully  silly,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "but  any- 
how, the  mischief's  done." 

"Then  I  may  come  again?"  he  asked,  ardent  for  more 
flattery. 

But  her  only  answer  was  a  smile  as  she  shut  her  door. 
He  descended  the  staircase  furiously  in  love  with  Miss 
Nightingale. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 
THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY 

ADAM  interpreted  Miss  Nightingale's  smile  in  the  light  of 
what  she  had  said  before,  and  became  a  constant  visitor 
at  the  flat  reflecting  the  glory  of  Westminster  Cathedral, 
or  rather,  failing  to  reflect  it;  for  the  rubicund  visage  of 
the  huge  building  made  the  grayness  of  her  apartment  all 
the  paler.  Never  once  did  he  see  any  color  there  save 
when  her  cheeks  mantled  talking  of  Mr.  Macarthy.  He 
no  longer  doubted  that  Mr.  Sackville's  theory  of  her  love 
for  an  unnamed  dramatist  of  great  brilliance  was  a  foible 
of  the  actor's  brain,  and  that  the  one  man  who  had  touched 
her  heart  was  his  own  guardian.  But  although  Miss  Night- 
ingale encouraged  Adam  to  talk  to  her  about  Mr.  Macarthy, 
she  turned  illusive  when  he  looked  for  information  in  ex- 
change. She  had  known  him  a  long  time,  had  been  fas- 
cinated by  his  brain-power,  and  considered  him  to  be  wast- 
ing himself  in  Ireland :  that  was  almost  all  he  could  gather 
from  her.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Macarthy  that  he  saw  much 
of  Miss  Nightingale  and  that  they  talked  constantly  of 
him.  Mr.  Macarthy  replied  that  he  had  wished  Adam  to 
learn  wisdom  from  Miss  Nightingale  and  not  waste  her 
time  and  his  own  in  small  talk. 

Fortified  by  this  letter,  Adam  felt  justified  in  making 
love  to  Miss  Nightingale,  but  she  received  his  advances  in 
a  somewhat  baffling  way,  appearing  to  be  unaware  of  them. 
He  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  that  Shakespeare  had  mar- 
ried a  lady  several  years  older  than  himself. 

She  answered :  "He  couldn't  very  well  get  out  of  it,  could 

186 


THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY  187 

he?"  and  Adam,  not  being  able  clearly  to  remember  the 
circumstances,  and  suspecting  that  he  was  on  dangerous 
ground,  dropped  the  subject;  but  he  said  boldly  that  a  man 
as  clever  as  Shakespeare  could  marry  a  woman  old  enough 
to  be  his  mother. 

"He  could,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "but  would  he?'* 

"Why  not?"  asked  Adam. 

"That  is  not  for  me  to  say,"  Miss  Nightingale  answered, 
"but  Shakespeare  himself,  you  may  remember,  is  very  in- 
sistent that  a  woman  should  always  marry  a  man  older  than 
herself.  'So  wears  she  to  him,  so  sways  she  level  with  her 
husband's  heart/  " 

"Well,"  said  Adam  doggedly,  "then  I  don't  agree  with 
Shakespeare." 

"The  lady  you  once  came  to  consult  me  about,"  Miss 
Nightingale  suggested,  "was  she  older  than  you?" 

"I  hardly  remember,"  said  Adam,  "but  the  lady  I  want 
to  talk  about  now  is  a  lot  older,  she  is  in  fact  as  old  as 
you." 

"Then  I'll  not  make  the  poor  dear  woman  ridiculous  by 
discussing  her,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  and  firmly  refused 
to  be  further  drawn,  but  in  his  heart  he  suspected  that  she 
knew  what  he  meant  and  was  pleased  by  it;  for  never  did 
she  shut  him  out  altogether,  never  hasten  his  departure, 
and  never  hint  at  indifference  as  to  whether  he  came  again. 
He  said  to  himself  that  if  she  might  not  have  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy's  company,  she  really  found  him  the  next  best 
thing. 

But  there  was  one  fissure  dividing  his  position  from  hers. 
She  did  not  open  it,  and  he  did  not  for  some  time  suspect 
it,  but  once  discovered  it  yawned  between  them.  Miss 
Nightingale  was  hot  for  the  prosecution  of  the  war  and 
thought  it  high  time  that  Adam  was  in  khaki.  Now  agree- 
able as  Adam's  life  was  he  would  at  a  hint  from  Mr.  Ma- 
carthy  have  thrown  it  all  up  and  gone  to  face  wounds, 


188  IN  LONDON 

sickness  and  death,  but  he  had  no  instinctive  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  be  fighting  England's  battle.  This  attitude  baf- 
fled Miss  Nightingale,  who  was  a  sentimentally  patriotic 
Englishwoman,  through  and  through.  She  had  worked 
hard  at  one  or  other  war  service  from  the  very  beginning, 
and  being  a  highly  qualified  nurse,  though  she  had  ceased 
to  practise  professionally,  had  done  first-class  service  near 
the  firing-line  until  compulsorily  invalided  home.  Since 
then,  forced  to  restrict  herself  to  light  work,  she  had  acted 
as  inspector  for  one  of  the  Red  Cross  organizations.  So 
it  was  that  she  had  come  in  contact  with  that  slightly  ec- 
centric peeress,  the  present  Countess  of  Derrydown,  whom 
she  had  inspired  with  a  greater  devotion  than  did  Britannia. 
The  Countess  did  not  greatly  care  whether  Britain  sank 
or  swam,  but  a  frown  from  Miss  Nightingale  would  reduce 
her  to  tears  of  repentance. 

It  was  from  the  Countess  herself  that  Adam  gathered 
these  facts  about  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  view  of  him; 
for  she  was  punctiliously  reticent  when  he  visited  her  at 
the  flat;  so  reticent  that  Adam  had  no  suspicion  of  her 
disapproval  until  the  Countess  warned  him  of  it.  He  had 
not  seen  Lady  Derrydown  since  the  death  of  his  grand- 
mother, until  a  chance  encounter  one  Sunday  at  Miss  Night- 
ingale's, when  they  came  away  together,  she  volunteering 
her  permission  for  him  to  cavalier  her  to  Eaton  Place. 

Adam  had  no  stomach  for  this  journey;  for  that  street 
had  become  a  place  of  horror  to  him  since  he  had  seen 
the  old  Marchesa  lifted  from  the  roadway  like  nothing  that 
he  could  think  of  so  much  as  a  hideous  Guy  Fawkes :  the 
very  carcass  of  false  romance.  To  think  of  that  thing  be- 
ing a  woman  at  all  was  fearsome,  to  think  of  her  as  being 
his  grandmother  little  less  appalling  than  the  thought  of 
her  who  had  been  his  mother.  When  Adam  thought  of 
those  who  gave  him  life  he  abhorred  it:  the  donors  dis- 
missed from  his  memory,  he  rejoiced  in  their  gift. 


THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY  189 

This  paradox  had  sprung  into  his  brain  when  Lady 
Derrydown,  having  led  him  as  far  as  Ebury  Street  with 
barely  a  monosyllable  returning  her  chatter  of  her  friend, 
offered  him  a  penny  for  his  thoughts.  She  neither  paid 
for  nor  received  the  goods,  Adam  smiling  grimly  at  the 
impertinence,  which  nettled  her  into  the  inquiry  why  he 
was  not  in  the  army. 

Adam  answered  lightly  that  like  her  husband  he  thought 
the  war  was  not  an  Irishman's  business. 

"Derrydown  thinks  nothing  of  the  kind,"  the  Countess 
declared.  "He  can't  be  in  khaki  because  of  his  heart,  but 
he  does  no  end  of  war  work." 

"At  the  club  with  Mr.  O'Hagan-Bathe  ?"  Adam  sug- 
gested. 

"I  don't  know  what  he  does  at  the  club  with  Mr. 
O'Hagan-Bathe,"  the  lady  blurted,  "but  you  ought  to  know 
what  his  war  work  is,  since  his  offices  are  over  the  Grand 
Theater." 

"Oh!"  said  Adam,  "is  he  the  Self-Help  Ministry?" 

"I  should  think  he  was,"  said  the  Countess,  "he's  written 
nearly  all  their  advertisements,  and  every  one  says  they're 
simply  splendid."  She  pointed  opportunely  to  one  on  a 
pillar-box  outside  St.  Peter's  Church  and  stayed  her  com- 
panion that  they  might  read  it. 

"Britons  Strike  Home !"  it  cried  in  strident  capitals,  add- 
ing in  type  not  quite  so  large:  "You  Can  Do  This  Staying 
At  Home.  .  .  .  How?  .  .  .  Through  Self-Help.  ...  If 
You  Will  Help  Yourself  Your  Country  Will  Do  The 
Rest." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  Lady  Derrydown  proudly 
asked,  and  seemed  disappointed  when  Adam  answered  that 
it  seemed  to  him  a  direct  encouragement  to  fraudulent 
contractors. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  meant  for  that,"  said  Lady  Derry- 
down. "Of  course  one  can't  help  being  on  friendly  terms 


190  IN  LONDON 

with  profiteers,  but  I'm  sure  Derrydown  makes  little  or 
nothing  out  of  the  war  himself." 

"D'you  happen  to  know  what  the  Self-Help  Ministry  is 
for?"  Adam  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  eagerly,  "creating  civil  billets 
of  indispensable  importance  and  helping  to  win  the  war." 

"But  how  does  it  help  to  win  the  war?"  Adam  insisted. 

"Derrydown  did  explain  that  to  me,"  she  said,  "but  I've 
forgotten,  except  that  you  do  it  through  Self-Help." 

"I'm  dashed  if  I  can  see  how  selfishness  of  any  kind  is 
going  to  win  the  war,"  Adam  murmured. 

"Oh,  not  selfishness,"  Lady  Derrydown  corrected  him, 
"truly  not  selfishness.  .  .  .  Selp-Helpishness.  I  remember 
now,  he  said  the  idea  was  to  dissuade  people  who  were  en- 
titled to  pensions  from  applying  for  them ;  if  nobody  asked 
for  anything  that  would  be  a  help,  wouldn't  it?" 

"A  help  to  whom?"  Adam  asked  dryly. 

His  companion  shook  her  head.  "I'm  not  clever  enough 
to  tell  you  that,"  she  said,  "but  I'll  ask  Derrydown."  She 
pointed  her  hand  up  Belgrave  Street:  "There's  another 
poster  of  Derrydown's  over  there,  perehaps  that  will  make 
it  clear." 

So  they  called  another  halt  to  study  this:  "Britons,"  it 
said,  as  the  other  had  done,  "Strike  Home!  If  You  Have 
Lost  Your  Father,  Remember  You  Might  Have  Lost  Your 
Mother.  ...  See  That  You  Keep  Her,  And  The  Best 
Way  Is  By  Saving  The  State  The  Cost  Of  Supporting 
Her." 

"I  think  that's  very  touching,"  said  Lady  Derrydown, 
"don't  you?" 

For  answer  Adam  said  that  he  espied  yet  another  pillar- 
box  with  yet  another  poster  in  the  distance  and  suggested 
a  farther  pilgrimage  to  this.  Lady  Derrydown  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  appreciation  of  her  husband's  appeal,  accom- 
panied him,  and  again  they  read:  "Britons  Strike  Home. 


THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY  191 

.  .  .  Strike  Home  By  Self-Help.  This  Is  How  You  Can 
Help,  By  Self-Help.  If  You  Have  Lost  A  Leg,  Remember 
You  Might  Have  Lost  Your  Life,  And  Ask  For  Nothing." 
On  the  back  of  this  pillar-box  was  yet  another  poster: 
"Britons  Strike  Home!  How  Though  Disabled  You  Can 
Help.  If  You  Have  Lost  An  Arm,  Remember  You  Are 
No  Longer  With  The  Army,  And  Be  Grateful  To  Your 
Country  And  Content." 

"That's  just  like  Derrydown,"  said  his  Countess,  "he 
always  looks  on  the  cheerful  side." 

Adam  felt  that  his  appetite  for  the  noble  peer's  com- 
positions was  sharpening.  "Let's  go  and  look  for  some 
more,"  he  suggested,  but  Lady  Derrydown  pleaded  the 
necessity  to  dress  for  dinner.  "There's  a  very  nice  one 
just  outside  the  house,"  she  said,  and  on  yet  another  pillar- 
box,  the  black  base  of  which  had  not  so  long  before  been 
spotted  by  the  Marchesa's  blood,  Adam  read:  "Britons 
Strike  Home!  If  You  Have  Lost  All  You  Love  In  The 
War,  That  Is  All  The  More  Reason  Why  You  Should 
Love  Your  Country's  Government.  See  That  You  Cost 
Them  Nothing,"  and  on  the  other  side :  "The  True  Patriot 
Asks  Nothing  Of  His  Country,  Britons  Expect  Nothing  Of 
Yours,  But  Strike  Home !" 

"I  think  they're  much  the  best  of  all  the  Ministry  posters, 
don't  you?"  said  the  Countess. 

Adam  confessed  that  his  acquaintance  with  the  litera- 
ture of  war  posters  was  restricted  to  a  not  infrequent 
perusal  of  the  advice  that  his  King  and  Country  wanted 
him. 

"I  think  that,  too,  is  a  beautiful  poster,"  the  Countess 
declared,  "I  wonder  that  it  has  never  stirred  your  heart  to 
be  told  that  your  King  and  Country  want  you." 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Adam  with  sweet  simplicity,  "I 
may  have  a  country,  but  I  should  hardly  be  justified  in 
saying  that  I  had  a  king." 


i92  IN  LONDON 

The  Countess  looked  at  him  resentfully.  "Are  you  really 
a  Sinn  Feiner?"  she  demanded. 

Adam  thoughtfully  answered:  "I  don't  know  that  I  am, 
but  I  wouldn't  positively  say  that  I  am  not." 

The  Countess  still  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  gazing 
proudly  at  her  husband's  blazonry  on  the  letter-box.  "I 
can't  understand  any  one  being  a  Sinn  Feiner  when  he 
reads  a  thing  like  that." 

In  a  fair  imitation  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  tone  Adam  an- 
swered: "I  can't  understand  a  Sinn  Feiner  reading  that 
when  he  might  be  doing  anything  else." 

"What  is  a  Sinn  Feiner?"  asked  the  Countess.  "It's  an 
Irish  rebel,  of  course,  I  know  that,  or  at  any  rate  a  sort 
of  moonlighter;  but  what  does  the  word  actually  mean? 
Derrydown  says  it  means:  'To  Hell  with  the  Orangemen,' 
and  what  are  the  Orangemen?" 

"Your  husband  ought  to  know  that,"  Adam  said.  "It 
simply  means  Self-Help." 

The  Countess  clapped  her  hands  and  then  knocked  at  her 
door.  "Come  in  and  tell  Derrydown  that.  He's  been  asked 
to  do  a  poster  for  Ireland,  and  wouldn't  it  be  a  great  score 
to  head  it  Sinn  Feiners  Strike  Home?  .  .  ."  As  Adam 
made  no  answer  she  went  on :  "You  will  come  up  now  and 
tell  him,  won't  you?" 

It  was  not  Adam's  intention  to  do  anything  of  the  kind, 
but  in  a  moment  he  found  himself  in  the  oddly  familiar 
drawing-room,  listening  to  the  Countess  burbling  to  a  pre- 
maturely middle-aged  gentleman  courteously  dissembling 
his  feelings,  the  information  that  Sinn  Fein  meant  Self- 
Help.  "Isn't  it  priceless?"  she  demanded,  "that  it  should 
mean  that,  when  you  thought  it  meant  'To  Hell  with  the 
Orangemen'  ?" 

"I  don't  quite  think  that  that  was  altogether  what  I 
said,"  Lord  Derrydown  protested  without  cogency,  "but  I 
think  no  one  will  deny  .  .  ."  he  glanced  at  Adam  with 


THE  SELF-HELP  MINISTRY  193 

obvious  anxiety  lest  he  should  do  so,  "I  really  think  that 
few  if  any  will  deny,  that  if  Sinn  Fein,  whatever  the  word 
exactly  means,  were  to  turn  out  a  success,  I'm  sure  that  no 
one  will  deny,  or  comparatively  few,  that  practically  no 
Orangemen,  if  I  am  to  believe  what  my  neighbor  Carson 
says,  would  like  it." 

"Carson  is  an  old  dear,"  cried  the  Countess,  "but  I  really 
never  understood  that  he  objected  to  Self-Help." 

In  a  condition  wavering  between  laughter  and  tears, 
Adam  gazed  on  the  Earl  and  on  the  Countess  and  then  on 
the  Earl  again :  he  wondered  if  they  had  children :  he  tried 
to  be  humble  and  not  congratulate  himself  on  belonging  to 
the  sinister  branch  of  the  family.  The  Earl  broke  silence 
with  a  pretty  strong  hint  that  he  supposed  his  wife  wanted 
him  to  give  Adam  a  job  in  the  Self-Help  Ministry. 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  the  Countess,  "but  it  really 
would  be  a  good  idea,  only  I  do  think  that  he  ought  to  be 
going  to  the  Front." 

"Damn  the  Front,"  said  his  lordship.  "It  costs  more 
money  than  it's  worth,"  he  added,  to  account  for  his  note 
of  disapproval. 

"But  war  is  bound  to  cost  money,"  said  the  Countess. 

"Not  when  they  belted  each  other  with  clubs,"  said  his 
lordship.  "In  the  days  of  chivalry  war  was  cheap 
enough,  but  to  think  of  firing  a  field  gun  at  a  quid  a  time 
and  God  knows  how  many  rounds  a  minute  all  day  and 
all  night  for  years  on  end  makes  me  sick."  His  voice  rose 
protestingly :  "And  gas!  Just  think  of  it!  Look  at  the 
price  of  gas !"  He  turned  to  Adam  apologetically :  "You'll 
forgive  my  talking  shop,  but  the  business  of  my  Ministry 
is  to  try  to  keep  down  the  non-productive  costs  of  the 
war.  I  have  to  cod  fellows  into  going  about  on  one  leg  as 
if  it  were  two  in  order  that  another  department  may  spend 
the  money  blowing  the  heads  off  Germans.  .  .  .  I'm  sick 
of  it,  I  tell  you." 


194  IN  LONDON 

"But  it's  better  than  being  in  the  trenches,"  said  the 
Countess. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  Earl,  "at  this  time  of  the  year 
when  it's  dry  under  foot  the  trenches  are  not  so  bad  for 
lads  who  like  playing  at  boy  scout  and  that  kind  of  thing. 
.  .  .  You've  been  a  boy  scout?"  he  suggested  to  Adam. 

Said  Adam :  "No,  I  can't  say  I  was  that,  though  I  ought 
to  have  been  one  of  your  aunt's  Infant  Druids." 

His  lordship  asked  what  the  hell  the  Infant  Druids 
were,  and  then  went  on  without  waiting  for  an  answer: 
"You'll  know,  perhaps,  was  my  aunt  a  Sinn  Feiner  or  was 
she  not?  O'Hagan-Bathe  says  he  knows  for  a  fact  she 
was,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that  the  old  bird  was  just 
out  for  a  bit  of  a  lark  that  Easter  Monday."  He  wiped 
his  forehead.  "My  God,  what  a  relief  it  was  when  she 
fell  out  of  the  window  there." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that,"  the  Countess 
grumbled  as  she  lit  a  cigarette,  "you  hadn't  to  help  to  pick 
her  up,  and  after  all,  she  was  no  end  of  an  old  sport." 

"What  did  Miss  Nightingale  think  of  her?"  Adam  asked. 

The  Countess  giggled.  "Janie  Nightingale  would  rather 
die  than  tell  any  one  what  she  thought  of  the  Marchesa. 
I'm  not  sure  that  she  wouldn't  rather  die  than  think  about 
her  at  all,  but  I  can  tell  you  what  she  thinks  about  you." 

Adam  raised  a  pleased  face:  "She  does  me  the  honor  to 
think  about  me?"  he  said,  "and  do  you  know  what  she 
thinks?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Countess  calmly,  "she  thinks  you're  a 
damned  young  skunk  not  to  be  in  the  trenches." 

Adam's  shocked  ears  burned.  "Did  she  say  that?"  he 
quavered. 

The  Countess  nodded.  "Not  in  my  words,  but  serpent 
talk  she  did." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 
TO  FIGHT  OR  NOT  TO  FIGHT 

IN  the  chair  in  which  his  grandmother  had  sat  a  few  mo- 
ments before  she  flung  herself  to  her  doom  Adam  sat  star- 
ing at  the  patches  of  red  wall  covering,  which  interlocked 
with  the  Countess  of  Derrydown's  odd  collection  of  pic- 
tures. Finally  his  eye  rested  on  the  provocative  imbecility 
rejoicing  in  the  title  of  "A  Toi."  He  felt  he  ought  still 
to  be  able  to  despise  its  proprietors,  but  could  not  bring 
himself  to  make  head  against  them,  so  overcome  was  he 
at  hearing  what  Miss  Nightingale  really  thought  of  him. 
The  knowledge  did  not  make  him  wish  that  he  were  in 
the  trenches :  it  made  him  regret  that  he  had  not  been  with 
Columba  and  Patrick  O'Meagher  on  that  immortal  Easter 
Monday.  But,  anyhow,  it  made  him  wish  that  he  was 
anywhere  but  in  the  Countess  of  Derrydown's  drawing- 
room.  .  .  .  Abruptly  he  rose  to  go. 

"You  mustn't  pay  any  attention  to  what  my  wife  says," 
the  Earl  affably  admonished  him,  "she's  always  egging  on 
people  to  join  the  army,  but  when  I  had  very  nearly  worked 
up  enough  enthusiasm  to  join  an  O.T.C.  she  said  she'd 
divorce  me  if  I  didn't  get  a  medical  certificate  to  say  I 
really  mustn't." 

The  Countess  said  with  dignity:  "I  knew  your  brains 
would  be  more  valuable  at  home  than  at  the  Front.  .  .  . 
After  all  there  would  have  been  no  Self-Help  Ministry  if 
I'd  let  you  come  to  grief  in  the  army." 

"No,"  agreed  his  lordship  moodily,  "there  would  have 
been  no  Self-Help  Ministry  if  I'd  come  to  grief." 

195 


196  IN  LONDON 

"Would  that  have  mattered?"  Adam  promptly  asked, 
unable  to  resist  the  Parthian  shot. 

His  lordship  took  it  amiably:  "Faith,  it  would  have 
mattered  to  me,'*  he  said  with  a  not  unpleasant  twinkle  in 
his  eye. 

So  Adam  parted  from  his  unsought  hosts  without  rancor, 
but  as  he  circumvented  Belgrave  Square  with  all  its  greater 
houses  turned  into  some  form  of  amateur  War  Ministry, 
destructive  or  curative,  he  was  deeply  indignant  with  the 
vulgarity  of  the  Countess  and  the  treacherous  reticence  of 
Miss  Nightingale.  As  he  walked  through  Hyde  Park  he 
birched  vindictively  the  trees,  and  such  upright  things  as 
came  within  reach  of  his  cane,  at  the  thought  that  Miss 
Nightingale  had  smiled  in  welcome  at  him,  to  sneer  at  him 
after  his  departure. 

Miss  Durward,  seeing  him  ruffled,  failed  signally  to 
smooth  him.  He  slept  badly,  and  though  it  was  a  hot 
summer  night,  presently  rose  and  drew  his  blinds  that  he 
might  light  up  and  write  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  pouring  out  a 
mourning  plaint  against  the  lady  whose  wisdom  as  well  as 
virtue  his  guardian  had  bid  him  honor.  "You  will  be  sur- 
prised to  hear,"  he  wrote,  "that  your  friend  Miss  Nightin- 
gale, whom  you  told  me  to  go  and  see,  and  who  seemed 
to  me  so  nice,  makes  fun  of  me  to  her  friends  for  not  being 
in  the  army — the  English  army,  if  you  please.  But  I 
don't  see  any  more  than  you  do  why  an  Irishman  should 
be  in  the  English  army.  In  fact  I  don't  see  why  he  should 
be  in  any  army  at  all  since  there's  no  Irish  army  for  him 
to  be  in.  It  only  makes  me  feel  ashamed  that  I  ran  away 
from  Ireland  the  way  I  did.  Not  that  I  pretend  to  feel 
very  much  about  Ireland  either,  I  mean  in  the  sense  of 
wanting  to  fight  for  her ;  I  don't  believe  that  any  country's 
worth  fighting  about,  in  fact  I  never  heard  of  anything  yet 
that  was  worth  fighting  about,  but  if  I'm  going  to  fight 
about  anything,  that  is,  fight  for  my  country,  then  I'll  fight 


TO  FIGHT  OR  NOT  TO  FIGHT  197 

'for  Ireland  and  nothing  else."  The  letter  ended  with  a 
rhetorical  expression  of  his  resolution  to  visit  Miss  Night- 
ingale no  more. 

Dawn  had  broken  when  Adam  finished  this  letter  and 
went  to  bed.  Re-reading  it  before  going  to  his  bath  he 
liked  it  less  than  in  the  first  blush  of  composition,  but, 
though  dissatisfied  with  its  style  and  suspicious  that  he 
might  win  severe  criticism  from  any  who  happened  to  dis- 
agree with  him,  he  posted  it  after  breakfast  and  awaited 
with  confidence,  if  with  some  curiosity,  his  guardian's  reply. 
It  arrived  on  the  Wednesday  afternoon. 

Writing  from  his  Dublin  address,  Mr.  Macarthy  said  in 
effect :  "My  DEAR  BOY, — You  tell  me  that  our  friend  Miss 
Nightingale  deplores  the  fact  that  you  are  not  serving  in 
the  British  army.  The  form  of  her  strictures  on  your  con- 
duct, as  reported  by  Lady  Derrydown,  have  an  unflattering 
implication,  but  I  know  Miss  Nightingale  well  enough  to 
judge  that  she  did  not  speak  as  reported.  That  she  regrets 
your  absence  from  the  fighting  line  is,  after  all,  flattering 
to  you;  for  she  must  imagine  that  your  presence  there 
would  make  some  difference,  and  you  will  be  justified  in 
assuming  that  it  would  be  a  change  for  the  better  since  the 
state  of  affairs  could  hardly  be  worse.  .  .  .  Though  in 
point  of  fact  I  anticipate  that  our  generals  may  yet  suc- 
ceed in  making  it  worse  before  the  Americans  come  to  our 
rescue.  You  see  I  write  of  the  situation  critically  as  an 
Irishman.  As  an  Irishman  I  am  indignant  at  Miss  Night- 
ingale's suggestion  that  you,  who  are  my  ward,  should  be 
seduced  by  her  into  joining  the  British  army.  .  .  .  On  the 
other  hand  I  am  bound  to  put  to  you  in  fairness  to  all 
parties  the  other  side  of  the  case.  .  .  .  For  some  eighteen 
months  now,  which  is  an  appreciable  proportion  of  your 
whole  life,  you  have  been  domiciled  in  England,  living  on 
what  I  might  call  equal  terms  with  other  young  English- 
men, were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  you  are  actually  better 


ig8  IN  LONDON 

off  than  all  but  a  mere  handful.  I  put  it  to  you  that  it 
might  be  said  you  cannot  in  honor  go  on  living  in  England 
taking  five  hundred  a  year  out  of  the  pockets  of  English 
people  (a  considerable  percentage  of  whom  have  probably 
died  of  wounds  or  disease  since  they  paid  their  money  for 
the  privilege  of  seeing  you  act)  without  accepting  the  lia- 
bilities as  well  as  the  rewards  of  being  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  a  British  citizen.  ...  To  me  it  would  be  a  ter- 
ribly painful  thing  if  you  were  killed  or  your  health  ruined 
in  a  war  which  need  not  have  been  any  concern  of  yours, 
but  since  you  ask  me,  I  tell  you  that,  if  I  were  in  your 
position,  I  should  feel  that  now  you  are  approaching  the 
age  at  which  Englishmen  by  the  laws  of  their  country  must 
be  prepared  to  fight  for  that  country,  you  should  either 
throw  in  your  lot  with  them  or  return  to  your  own  coun- 
try. If  your  point  is  that  your  conscience  forbids  you  to 
fight,  then  I  advise  you  that  you  spend  some  of  your  ill- 
gotten  gains  on  learning  to  drive  an  ambulance  or  some 
other  useful  work  which  will  not  involve  you  in  butchering 
your  fellow-men." 

Adam  was  conscious  of  shock  as  he  took  in  at  a  glance 
the  purport  of  this  letter;  and  study  did  not  remove  the 
uneasiness  of  that  first  moment.  It  was  clear  that  even 
Mr.  Macarthy  thought  he  should  be  at  the  Front.  He 
wrote  off  to  him  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  a  letter  com- 
plaining of  his  change  of  attitude.  "Why  didn't  you  warn 
me  before,"  he  demanded,  "that  you  thought  me  a  cow- 
ard?" To  which  Mr.  Macarthy  at  once  replied  that  such 
a  thought  had  never  entered  his  head. 

"You  very  well  know  that  I  have  never  interfered  with 
the  working  of  your  conscience,"  Mr.  Macarthy  reminded 
him.  ...  "I  have  never  told  you  what  I  thought  you  ought 
to  do,  though  I  may  have  told  you  of  things  you  had  better 
refrain  from  doing.  As  you  were  settled  in  England  I 
thought  it  well  that  you  should  be  brought  into  contact, 


TO  FIGHT  OR  NOT  TO  FIGHT  199 

as  a  corrective  to  the  mentality  of  the  theater,  or  of  the 
camp-followers  of  the  theater,  with  the  point  of  view  of  the 
better  sort  of  English  people.  ...  I  know  no  better  sort 
than  Miss  Nightingale,  who  has  a  tolerable  brain  and  some- 
thing like  a  beautiful  character :  her  limitations  are  those  of 
her  sex  and  nation — which  in  spite  of,  or  perhaps  because 
C-,  her  German  extraction,  is  markedly  English.  It  is  nat- 
ural that  a  woman  who  has  worn  herself  to  death  at  the 
Front  should  expect  her  male  friends  to  go  there  too.  The 
possibility  of  her  country  being  wrong  never  occurs  to  per- 
sons of  Miss  Nightingale's  temperament.  And  indeed  of 
all  the  nations,  the  big,  predatory  nations,  cutting  each 
other's  throats  at  the  present  time,  England  seems  to  me 
on  the  whole  the  least  wrong.  You  cannot  expect  any 
woman  with  an  untrained  political  sense  to  realize  that 
England  opposes  to  the  brutal  efficiency  of  Prussia  and  her 
imitators  a  dishonest  opportunism,  perhaps  as  inhumane 
in  effect,  and  at  worst  there  remains  to  her  the  defense  that 
England  is  an  amateur  cut-throat  struggling  in  the  grip  of 
a  professional  one.  .  .  .  Think  this  over.  .  .  .  And  think 
over  another  point  which  gives  me  much  ground  for 
thought :  There  never  has  been,  during  all  the  centuries  in 
which  they  have  been  in  conflict,  any  excuse  either  in 
morality  or  common-sense  for  England's  attitude  towards 
Ireland.  The  English  people,  as  apart  from  those  high- 
waymen schoolboys  called  gentlemen  adventurers,  have  lost 
far  more  than  they  have  gained  by  the  Irish  policy  of  their 
rulers,  who  not  only  used  the  riff-raff  of  England  to  bully 
decent  Irishmen,  but  the  riff-raff  of  Ireland  to  bully  decent 
Englishmen.  But  the  calling  in  of  America  to  save  the 
alleged  Liberalism  of  Europe  means  that  England  at  all 
events  must  pretend  to  abandon  her  traditional  Irish  policy, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  Woodrow  Wilson  (who  appears 
to  me  to  be  the  only  statesman  in  the  world,  at  all  events 
on  the  side  of  progress,  who  combines  honesty  with  strik- 


200  IN  LONDON 

ing  power)  is  determined  that  she  shall  abandon  it.  ... 
I  tell  you  this  to  make  it  quite  clear  that  although  I  do 
not  urge  you  to  risk  your  life  in  the  furtherance  of  English 
interests,  yet  in  my  view  an  Irishman  may  devote  himself 
to  England's  service  in  the  present  grave  crisis  without 
feeling  himself  to  be  a  traitor  to  his  own  country.  ...  I 
write  you  this  almost  in  spite  of  myself;  for  my  whole 
mentality  revolts  at  the  idea  of  an  old  man,  as  I  feel  my- 
self to  be,  being  directly  or  indirectly  a  party  to  a  young 
man  running  an  avoidable  risk.  My  only  rational  excuse 
is  that  I  think  death  the  least  of  all  the  risks  that  any  man 
can  run." 

When  Adam  had  reached  so  far  he  was  fully  ready  to 
think  over  what  his  guardian  put  to  him.  He  found  him- 
self wondering  how  he  had  failed  to  give  it  more  serious 
thought  before.  There  was  one  very  good  reason :  He  had 
come  to  London  not  yet  seventeen,  and  commencing  with 
his  seventeenth  birthday  he  had  been  fulfilling  a  theatrical 
engagement  which  had  necessitated  his  pretending  for  three 
hours  every  Monday,  Tuesday,  Thursday  and  Friday, 
and  six  hours  every  Wednesday  and  Saturday  for  eighteen 
months  on  end  to  be  a  boy  not  yet  seventeen,  and 
so  despite  his  plump  prosperity  and  the  addition  of  an  inch 
or  two  to  his  height,  he  remained  to  outward  appearance 
so  much  a  schoolboy  that  at  eighteen  and  a  half  the  busiest 
recruiting  officer  still  ignored  him  as  too  obviously  a  lad. 

And  it  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that  his  looks  did  not 
altogether  belie  him.  Physically  he  was  less  developed 
than  the  average  English  youth  of  his  age:  he  hardly 
reached  the  standard  height,  and  even,  as  most  of  his  fel- 
low-countrymen, was  far  below  what  in  England  was  for 
that  height  the  standard  weight.  His  very  countenance  was 
that  of  a  bare  adolescent:  easily  he  would  have  passed  for 
a  girl,  having  still  no  need  to  shave.  His  eyes,  if  not  as 
large,  were  as  blue  as  Miss  Nightingale's  own;  and  his 


TO  FIGHT  OR  NOT  TO  FIGHT  201 

complexion,  well  preserved  by  cocoa-butter  and  cleanliness 
from  the  ravages  of  theatrical  make-up,  had  the  delicate 
pink  and  white  of  one  content  with  little  food  and  less 
drink.  For  the  rest  the  swirl  of  dissipation  round  him 
titillated  his  brain  but  offered  him  no  temptation.  A  semi- 
narist could  hardly  have  lived  more  prudently.  So  he  com- 
fortably met  his  liabilities  with  little  more  than  half  his 
income,  sending  the  rest  to  Mr.  Macarthy  to  invest  for 
him:  his  chief  expenditure  was  on  books;  for  he  sadly 
missed  his  guardian's  library.  In  fine,  though  essentially 
a  man,  he  was  a  man  in  nothing  but  essentials. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  think  that  fighting  was  an 
occupation  for  any  man.  The  sight  of  the  common  sol- 
diers with  their  woebegone  faces,  lost  in  the  mazes  of  the 
London  stations,  or  plodding  desperately,  tin  hats  jangling 
against  trenching  tools,  towards  the  reinforcement  trains 
stirred  him  to  tears  of  rage.  .  .  .  He  could  not  bear  to  see 
other  men  going  to  throw  their  lives  away  in  this  incredibly 
nightmarish  chance  medley.  .  .  .  And  now  he  found  that 
the  one  man  in  whose  guidance  he  had  perfect  faith  made 
it  a  reproach  that  he  did  not  join  that  pageant  of  sad 
travelers.  .  .  .  Though  his  whole  soul  rebelled  at  the  no- 
tion, he  made  up  his  mind  that  on  the  following  Monday 
he  would  offer  himself  at  the  Central  Recruiting  Offices. 

The  last  days  of  the  week  sank  him  in  the  first  melan- 
choly he  had  suffered  from  since  leaving  Dublin:  he  felt 
as  a  man  condemned  to  death  without  honorable  reason. 
.  .  .  And  then  on  the  Saturday  night  by  the  very  last  post 
came  one  more  letter  from  Mr.  Macarthy  which  again 
changed  the  outlook.  "Dr.  Ahearn  tells  me,"  said  he,  "that 
the  British  recruiting  authorities  must  be  badly  served  by 
their  medical  officers  if  they  take  you  for  any  sort  of  a 
soldier.  You  need  not  be  alarmed  by  this.  His  point  is 
that  since  you  landed  yourself  such  a  cropper  trying  to 
ride  over  that  unfortunate  ox  four  or  five  years  ago,  your 


202  IN  LONDON 

right  arm,  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  has  been  out  of 
action  for  all  military  purposes.  Ahearn  believes  that  you 
could  not  possibly  handle  a  rifle  nor  turn  the  starting- 
handle  of  an  engine  with  a  stiff  compression.  So  it  seems 
that  after  all  there  is  nothing  doing." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 
MAJOR  MACFADDEN  SMITH 

ADAM  sat  looking  wistfully  at  Mr.  Macarthy's  letter  con- 
veying to  him  his  opinion  of  Dr.  Ahearn.  His  first  feel- 
ing of  relief  that  he  should  be  spared  the  dabbling  of  his 
hands  in  blood,  of  his  own  or  others,  was  drowned  in  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  emotion  when  he  realized  that  if  Dr. 
Ahearn  was  right  the  lists  of  the  Great  War  were  for  ever 
closed  against  him.  Incredible  as  it  was  even  to  himself, 
now  that  he  appeared  to  be  debarred  from  all  share  in  the 
conflict,  his  need  to  plunge  into  it  waxed  hot.  All  through 
the  Sunday  it  burned,  yet  by  Monday  its  glow  was  not  so 
intense  that  he  was  fired  to  a  decision.  For  the  dread  of 
being  called  on  to  take  life  yet  outweighed  all  other  mis- 
givings and  still  haunted  his  dreams.  Only  once,  within 
his  remembrance,  had  he  really  wished  to  kill:  that  was 
at  the  sight  of  Macfadden,  still  believed  by  him  in  those 
days  to  be  his  father,  beating  his  mother.  If  he  had  seen 
with  his  own  eyes  the  German  soldiers  in  Belgium  .  .  . 
But  then  Mr.  Macarthy  said  that  the  soldiers  of  every 
nation  brutalized  women  if  they  got  the  chance:  even  Irish 
soldiers !  .  .  .  After"  all,  Macfadden  was  an  Irishman  and 
kicked  his  wife,  and  he  had  seen  Irish  policemen  twisting 
the  arms  off  women.  Was  it  worse  to  kiss  a  woman  than 
to  kick  her?  .  .  .  Perhaps  from  her  husband's  point  of 
view.  .  .  .  Even  in  peace  the  world  was  a  welter  of  beast- 
liness and  cruelty.  Did  war  make  it  so  much  worse?  .  .  . 
The  papers  answered  "Yes!"  Peace  brutalized  and  slew 
its  thousands,  but  war  its  thousands  of  thousands.  Mil- 
lions of  lives  were  blasted  not  only  in  fiery  battlefield  and 
pestilent  camping  ground,  but  in  the  very  cradle. 

203 


204  IN  LONDON 

English  people  did  not  realize  the  abomination  of  war; 
for  it  seldom  unmasked  in  their  streets.  This  war  had 
brought  them  an  immediate  fraudulent  prosperity,  and  if 
babes  wanted  milk,  they  had  wanted  it  no  less  in  peace 
time  for  the  lack  of  the  means  to  pay  for  it.  Now  the 
money  that  might  have  gone  on  milk  for  them,  had  there 
been  milk  to  buy,  filled  the  picture  palaces  with  their  eld- 
ers. The  upper  classes,  too,  unable  to  spend  their  money 
on  filling  their  stomachs,  lavished  it  in  the  purchase  of  such 
mental  pabulum  as  What  Rot!  After  eighteen  months' 
run  What  Rot!  awoke  in  the  autumn  like  a  giant  refreshed 
and  was  going  stronger  than  ever. 

On  the  Monday  Mr.  Onsin,  who  had  heard  a  rumor  of 
Adam's  desire  to  join  the  army,  sent  for  him:  "Look 
here,"  he  said,  "this  is  all  nonsense.  You're  bound  to  me 
in  honor  for  the  run  of  the  piece."  He  was  making-up 
for  his  famous  impersonation  of  Lord  Algy  as  he  spoke. 

Adam,  already  dressed  to  go  on,  and  looking  the  picture 
of  youthful  albeit  painted  innocence,  answered  in  a  child- 
ish voice:  "But  I  may  have  to  join  the  army." 

"No  fear,"  said  the  actor  positively.  "Lord  Bulwark 
has  promised  the  missus  to  see  to  that."  He  added 
genially:  "We've  found  some  use  for  the  old  huckster." 

Adam  was  disinclined  to  avail  himself  of  the  amorous 
war-lord's  condescending  dishonesty,  and  with  a  firmer 
tone  answered :  "Legally,  I  dare  say  I  couldn't  be  made 
to  go,  but  I  think  perhaps  I  ought." 

"Why?"  Mr.  Onsin  queried  sharply. 

Adam  now  gave  the  lamer  answer  that  it  was  a  question 
of  his  conscience. 

Mr.  Onsin  caught  him  up  smartly.  "Conscience,  for- 
sooth !  Your  conscience  should  tell  you  that  you're  bound 
to  me,"  and  with  a  sudden  crash  of  his  hand  on  the  dress- 
ing-table, he  rasped  out:  "I'm  not  to  be  trifled  with.  If 
you  leave  me  in  the  lurch  after  all  I've  done  for  you,  and 


205 

go  romancing  off  to  this  damned  war,  I'll  see,  if  you  ever 
come  back,  that  you  never  get  a  London  engagement 
again." 

Adam's  temper  caught  flame  from  his.  "I'm  an  Irish- 
man," he  cried,  "and  I'll  go  where  I  like,  and  I'll  do  what 
I  like,  and  you  and  London  can  be  damned  together." 

Whereupon,  to  his  astonishment,  Mr.  Onsin  burst  into 
laughter.  "The  illusions  of  youth,"  he  cried.  "My  missus 
has  only  to  tell  Bulwark  that  she  wants  you  here  at  this 
theater,  and  if  you  go  to  enlist  you'll  simply  be  locked  up 
and  put  in  the  cells  with  a  sentry  over  you  until  you 
promise  to  come  back  here  with  your  tail  between  your 
legs  at  half  the  money  I'm  giving  you  now.  So  much  for 
that." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Adam  cried,  but  the  manager's 
downright  tone  overawed  him. 

Mr.  Onsin  tossed  his  head:  "Believe  me  or  not,"  said 
he,  "you  can  have  a  week's  holiday  to  try." 

Adam  was  fairly  staggered,  and  answered  doubtfully, 
"I  don't  want  a  holiday,  if  I  go,  I  go." 

"Answered  like  a  man,"  said  the  great  actor  heartily. 
"Don't  go.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while  not  to.  I  won't 
conceal  from  you  that  What  Rot!  is  the  biggest  success 
I've  ever  had,  one  of  the  beggest  successes  in  the  history 
of  the  theater,  and  between  ourselves  I'm  not  blind  to  the 
fact  that  after  my  wife  and  myself  you  have  as  much  a  share 
in  it  as  any  one.  You're  helping  to  keep  up  the  country's 
courage  far  better  here  than  you  would  in  the  trenches, 
where  as  likely  as  not  you'd  just  be  drowned  for  nothing. 
That's  what  happens  to  the  bantams,  you  know,  they're  not 
shot,  they're  just  drowned.  .  .  ."  Having  allowed  this  to 
sink  in,  he  sprang  up  fully  dressed  to  go  on,  and  clapped 
his  hand  on  Adam's  shoulder:  "Take  fifteen  pounds  a 
week  and  let  the  army  go  to  hell.  We  needn't  make  any 
fresh  contract,  but  so  long  as  you  remain  in  my  theater 


206  IN  LONDON 

during  the  run  of  this  play,  you'll  find  fifteen  pounds  in 
the  treasury  for  you  every  Friday."  He  put  his  arm 
through  Adam's.  "That's  settled;  let's  go  down  together." 

So  Adam  woke  up  the  next  morning  with  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a  year  added  to  his  ill-gotten  gains,  to 
compensate  for  the  injury  to  his  conscience.  And  his  pres- 
tige in  the  theater  was  vastly  increased.  Had  not  the 
great  manager  walked  arm  in  arm  with  him  to  the  lift  and 
from  the  lift  to  the  stage?  Had  he  not  also  put  up  his 
salary  fifty  per  cent.?  Either  of  these  tokens  of  appre- 
ciation would  have  added  to  his  importance.  Taken 
together,  they  doubled  it;  for  Mr.  Onsin  often  flattered 
actors  who  wished  their  salary  put  up,  but  he  seldom  or 
never  put  up  their  salaries  and  flattered  them  too;  indeed 
an  increase  of  salary  was  almost  invariably  accompanied 
by  a  mark  of  contempt.  Clearly  Mr.  Onsin  valued  Adam 
Quinn's  services  at  far  more  than  he  paid  him:  the  rumor 
got  about  that  the  Box  Office  reckoned  Adam  as  worth 
fifty  pounds  a  week.  The  extra  ladies  (with  under- 
studies) who  received  fifty  shillings,  all  agreed  that  Mr. 
Quinn  was  deplorably  underpaid  at  fifteen  pounds,  or,  as 
many  believed,  twenty-five. 

To  Adam  himself  the  extra  five  pounds  were  a  source 
of  shameful  joy.  He  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that 
they  colored  his  view  of  life:  he  knew  that  he  was  being 
bribed  and  cajoled  into  the  abandonment  of  what  might 
have  proved  to  be  his  duty.  After  all,  he  did  not 
know  positively  that  he  was  not  fit  to  be  a  soldier:  he  did 
not  know  positively  that  if  he  were  fit  to  be  a  soldier  a 
conspiracy  between  the  Onsins  and  Lord  Bulwark  could 
not  merely  frustrate  him  but  turn  his  noble  gesture  into 
a  contemptible  one.  In  his  heart  he  did  not  believe  it,  but 
his  brain  was  titillated  by  the  extra  money  into  defending 
the  possibility  of  such  a  fiasco. 

So  another  week  drifted  on  while  he  exchanged  further 


MAJOR  MACFADDEN  SMITH  207 

letters  with  his  guardian.  "This  is  the  clearest  case," 
wrote  Mr.  Macarthy,  "of  virtue  being  its  own  reward. 
But  I  think  I  should  feel  easier  in  my  mind,  were  I  in  your 
place,  if  I  spent  a  trifle  of  my  unearned  increment  in  find- 
ing out  whether  I  were  really  fit  for  military  service  or  no. 
Dr.  Ahearn  reminds  me  that  he  is  primarily  a  physician, 
and  would  not  undertake  to  say  definitely  that  the  lesion 
from  which  you  suffer  is  incurable.  In  the  life  which  you 
seemed  likely  to  lead  when  he  treated  you  after  your  acci- 
dent, it  could  not  have  affected  you  in  any  way,  so  he  did 
not  advise  me  to  bring  you  to  a  consultant.  If  you  would 
care  to  go  to  one  now,  he  says  that  Macfadden  Smith  of 
Devonshire  Street  (you  will  find  the  exact  address  in  the 
Telephone  Book;  remember,  being  a  surgeon,  you  will  ad- 
dress him  as  Esquire  simply),  would  be  quite  a  good  man 
for  you  to  see  if  he  hasn't  been  sent  to  sweep  out  stables 
in  Mesopotamia.  Ahearn  knows  him  from  the  days  when 
he  was  House  Surgeon  at  the  Royal  Free  and  a  great  dab 
at  mending  football  fractures.  If  you  mention  Ahearn's 
name,  that  will  be  sufficient  if  he's  there,  and  if  he's  away, 
his  secretary,  or  whoever  represents  him,  will  probably 
advise  you  whom  you  had  better  see." 

Adam  communicated  with  Mr.  Macfadden  Smith,  writ- 
ing from  the  theater  but  giving  his  address  as  care  of  Miss 
Durward  in  Norfolk  Square.  The  next  morning,  at  break- 
fast with  that  lady,  the  telephone  bell  rang  and  Miss  Dur- 
ward, stretching  out  her  hand  to  the  receiver,  told  Adam 
that  Mr.  Sackville  wanted  him. 

"He's  in  Edinburgh,"  Adam  protested,  rising  doubtfully 
from  his  place. 

"Wherever  he  is,  my  dear,"  Miss  Durward  answered 
as  one  who  knew  better,  "he's  holding  the  line  for  you 
to  talk  to  him." 

So  Adam  went  to  the  telephone  and  said:  "Adam 
Quinn  speaking,  is  that  you  Arthur  Sackville?" 


208  IN  LONDON 

A  voice  uncommonly  like  Sackville's  sang  back  in  Adam's 
ears :  "No,  it's  not,  but  I  happen  to  be  his  brother." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  disconcerted,  "no  bad  news,  I  hope?" 

There  was  a  buzz  of  laughter:  "I  hope  not,  I'm  Mac- 
fadden  Smith." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  "the  doctor?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  the  receiver  vibrated  with  emotion,  "the 
surgeon." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Adam  cried,  and  through  the  tele- 
phone Mr.  Macfadden  Smith  forgave  him  and  made  an 
appointment  for  the  following  morning  at  eleven. 

Although  Mr.  Macfadden  Smith's  voice  was  so  like  his 
brother's  that  Miss  Durward  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  the  latter  who  had  summoned  Adam  to  the  tele- 
phone, he  bore  no  great  resemblance  in  the  flesh  to  the 
actor.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  great,  big,  hearty  man,  and  in 
khaki,  being  a  major  in  the  R.A.M.C.  on  leave  from  the 
Western  Front,  looked  far  more  like  a  soldier  than  a  leech. 
But  he  impressed  Adam  as  knowing  his  job,  and  when, 
after  a  long  and  dexterous  manipulation  of  the  muscles  of 
Adam's  right  arm,  he  said  phlegmatically :  "Some  army 
doctors  would  class  you  Al,  but  I  am  prepared  to  say  that 
if  you  are  ever  fit  for  military  service,  it  won't  be  within 
the  next  five  years."  Adam  felt  that  a  Daniel  had  come 
to  judgment.  He  felt,  too,  that  though  he  might,  through 
the  stupidity  of  some  official,  be  sent  to  the  Front,  he  was 
justified,  in  England's  interest  as  well  as  his  own,  in  avoid- 
ing such  a  possibility. 

With  an  aspect  perhaps  more  crestfallen  than  was  ab- 
solutely sincere,  Adam  murmured:  "Then  you  really 
think  I  should  be  worse  than  useless  in  the  army?" 

"Physically  worse  than  useless,"  the  major  assured  him, 
"and  what  you  might  be  otherwise,  you  may  take  it  from 
me,  you  would  never  get  the  chance  to  show." 


MAJOR  MACFADDEN  SMITH  209 

Adam  was  emboldened  by  this  to  go  on  in  the  same 
tone:  "You'd  call  it  downright  silly  of  me  to  try  to  en- 
list?" 

The  major,  if  less  obviously  sentimental  than  his  artistic 
brother,  rivaled  him  in  kindliness  and  outrivaled  him  in 
the  heartiness  of  its  display.  For  Adam's  willingness  to 
throw  up  the  delights  of  London  in  war  time  for  the  in- 
felicity of  the  fighting  line  he  expressed  a  greater  admira- 
tion than  the  recipient  could  plume  himself  on  deserving: 
"I  call  it  simply  magnificent,"  he  boomed  down  to  Adam 
from  his  superior  altitude  of  ten  inches,  "but  I  am  glad  to 
say,  as  a  famous  British  officer  said  on  I  forget  what  occa- 
sion :  'It  is  not  war.' " 

Adam  could  not  refrain  from  telling  him  that  it  was  the 
politely  expressed  censure  of  a  French  general  on  the  im- 
becility of  a  British  staff  at  the  skirmish  of  Balaclava. 

The  surgeon  nodded.  "I  know,  I  know,"  and  in  a  palpa- 
ble imitation  of  his  brother's  voice  he  roared:  "Half  a 
league,  half  a  league  onward,  all  in  the  valley  of  death 
rode  the  seventeenth  Lancers  and  the  eleventh  Hussars. 
.  .  .  The  Death  or  Glory  Boys  and  the  Cherubims,  as  they 
call  them  when  they  call  them  nothing  worse.  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid  I'm  boring  you." 

This  last  was  called  for  by  the  expression  of  Adam's 
eyes,  which  suddenly  visualized  an  outside  car  bowling 
along  Stephen's  Green,  and  on  it  Caroline  Bradv  and  an 
eleventh  Hussar  with  cherry  overalls  jauntily  bright  in  the 
gray  street.  In  a  flash  he  recalled  the  jealous  fury  that 
made  him  wish  Caroline  Brady  was  dead.  .  .  .  And  the 
gods  had  given  him  that  wish,  but  not  until  Caroline  had 
first  given  him  herself. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  the  major,  cordially  mis- 
understanding him,  blew  his  nose  in  sympathy  and  said: 
"What  a  glorious  little  chap  you  are.  Would  it  cheer  you 


2io  IN  LONDON 

up  to  dine  with  me  on  Sunday  night  at  the  club?"  He 
added  with  obvious  doubt:  "The  National  Liberal  Qub." 
Not  knowing  what  else  to  say,  Adam  said  that  he  was 
sure  he  would  find  it  most  enheartening,  so  that  was  set- 
tled. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 
A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE 

ADAM'S  conception  of  a  club  was  derived  from  his  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  Muses  Club  in  Dublin  and  one  or 
two  flying  visits  with  Mr.  Sackville  to  the  Green  Room: 
except  the  Green  Room  the  only  London  club  which  he 
so  much  as  knew  by  appearance  was  the  Athenaeum,  and 
might  not  have  known  that  but  for  its  classic  frieze  catch- 
ing his  eye  every  day  on  his  way  to  the  theater.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  prodigious  building,  apparently  roomier  than  the 
Kildare  Street  which  in  his  youth  he  had  taken  for  a  rival 
hostelry  to  the  Shelbourne.  His  imagination  failed  to  en- 
due these  barracks  with  club  life.  The  National  Liberal 
Club,  driven  by  the  war  into  exile  in  Victoria  Street,  re- 
minded him  at  the  first  glance  of  a  railway  station,  and 
when  a  page  boy  was  sent  wailing  through  the  premises 
the  name  of  Major  Macfadden  Smith,  as  if  that  worthy 
man  were  a  destination  for  which  a  train  was  about  to 
depart,  this  impression  deepened.  But  when  his  host  sate 
him  down  at  a  comfortable  table,  in  a  spacious  room  dec- 
orated with  pictures  rather  larger  than  life  of  political 
nonenities  who  had  left  their  footprints  in  the  quicksands 
of  time,  a  cozier  feeling  stole  through  his  veins. 

Being  Sunday  evening,  the  great  dining-hall  was  com- 
paratively empty,  and  they  had  a  waitress  all  to  them- 
selves, who  hung  on  the  lips  of  the  huge  warrior-surgeon 
as  devotionally  as  if  he  were  the  portly  ghost  of  Lord  Kitch- 
ener. ...  "I  used  often  to  be  taken  for  K.K.  when  I  first 
got  into  khaki,"  he  mentioned  to  Adam  with  modest  pride. 
"Mugs  who  couldn't  see  that  our  badges  were  different. 

211 


212  IN  LONDON 

...  Of  course,  he  was  old  enough  to  be  my  father.  In 
point  of  fact  we  were  both  bachelors."  He  tossed  off  a 
glass  of  sherry  and  said  gravely:  "The  only  woman  I 
ever  loved  .  .  .  Just  like  Kitchener." 

"Like  your  brother,  too,"  Adam  suggested. 

Major  Macfadden  Smith  nodded  like  a  hearse  horse;  his 
neck  being  longer  than  Lord  Kitchener's,  enabled  him  to  do 
this.  "Thereby  hangs  a  tale.  Tragic  story.  The  only 
woman  we  ever  loved.  One  and  the  same.  .  .  .  Have  an- 
other glass  of  sherry.  We're  rationed  in  food  except  offal, 
but  you  can  drink  as  much  as  you  like.  .  .  .  Most  tragic, 
I  call  it.  So  does  dear  old  Arthur.  Admirable  tragedian, 
don't  you  think?" 

"I've  never  seen  him  in  tragedy,"  Adam  answered  apolo- 
getically, "but  I'm  sure  he'd  be  awfully  good  in  everything." 

"Magnificent,"  the  surgeon  asserted,  "his  Romeo  is  top- 
hole." 

"He  never  told  me  he  played  Romeo,"  Adam  confessed. 

"I  don't  think  he  did,"  said  the  surgeon,  "but  I've  known 
him  rehearse  it.  That  speech  about  Queen  Mab." 

"Isn't  that  Mercutio?"  Adam  suggested. 

"Surely  not?"  the  major  returned.  "The  fellow  who 
gets  killed  in  the  duel  and  says,  'Damn  both  families/ 
that's  Romeo?" 

Adam  expressed  his  opinion  that  in  the  more  authori- 
tative text  Romeo  killed  himself. 

Enlightenment  came  into  his  host's  puzzled  eyes:  "I 
believe  you're  right.  Of  course  you  are.  I  remember 
now.  Romeo  kills  Juliet  and  then  himself.  'No  way  but 
this  killing  myself  to  die  upon  a  kiss.  .  .  /  Shakespeare's 
prose  is  the  finest  poetry  in  the  world.  I'm  afraid  there's 
no  more  bread,  have  some  sherry.  I  never  read  anything 
now  but  the  British  Medical  Journal:  The  Lancet  is  rather 
frivolous,  though  it's  a  good  name.  In  France  one  has  no 
time  even  for  that.  All  I  read  there  is  Miss  Marie 


A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  213 

Corelli.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  her?  I  find  she  makes 
me  think.  A  scientific  man  should  not  be  a  materialist. 
So  many  are.  Dear  old  Arthur  sent  me  Miss  Marie 
Corelli's  works  because  she  lived  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 
.  .  .  Has  Arthur  ever  told  you  what  a  tragedy  his  life  has 
been?  You're  too  young  to  understand.  There's  nothing 
like  the  love  of  a  beautiful  woman.  Beautiful  and  good. 
I  can  honestly  say  I'd  rather  dear  old  Arthur  had  her  than 
I.  Between  ourselves,  I  know  that  she  preferred  me,  be- 
ing interested  in  surgery.  It  was  a  great  privilege  to  work 
with  her.  There  I  had  the  advantage  over  him,  but  I  can 
honestly  say  that  I  never  used  it.  I  always  put  his  claim 
on  her  before  my  own.  She  never  married,  any  more 
than  Arthur  and  myself.  Damned  odd  what  women  will 
do.  And  yet  .  .  .  Have  some  sherry." 

Adam  seized  the  momentary  pause  to  say  that  he  drank 
little. 

"Quite  right,"  said  the  surgeon.  "The  less  one  drinks 
the  better  one  is,  except  in  moderation.  I  was  telling  you 
about  my  brother's  love  affair.  Dear  old  Arthur.  He 
never  drinks.  Upon  my  honor,  I  sometimes  think  he  never 
does  anything.  At  school  .  .  .  The  artistic  temperament. 
I'm  not  artistic,  I  know  it,  but  I  can  appreciate  Miss  Marie 
Corelli.  I  don't  care  whether  she  lives  at  Stratford-on- 
Avon  or  not.  I  think  you  said  you  didn't  care  for  sherry? 
We'll  try  some  port.  No  port?  Come,  I'll  have  to  drink 
it  by  myself.  No  wonder  you're  interested  in  dear  Arthur. 
Splendid  tragedian.  You  said  it  wasn't  Romeo.  That  re- 
minds me,  I  know  a  man  in  France  who  has  rooms  in  the 
Temple  he  wants  to  let,  Plowden  Buildings.  Any  use  to 
you?  I've  got  the  key.  You  can  have  them  at  your 
own  price.  He  may  be  dead  by  now,  and  what's  it 
matter?" 

Adam's  interest  was  wakened.  "Are  they  furnished?" 
he  asked. 


214  IN  LONDON 

"Furnished?'*  the  major  cried.  "I  should  think  so. 
Beautifully  furnished.  They're  at  the  top  of  the  building, 
and  there's  a  bath  hot  and  cold  in  the  bedroom,  and  you 
can  go  out  straight  on  the  tiles.  Mind  you  don't  fall  off, 
and  what  more  do  you  want?  You  can  have  them  at  your 
own  price."  He  blew  his  nose.  "I  love  those  rooms.  It 
was  in  that  bedroom  with  the  bath  in  it  that  I  first  met  the 
only  woman.  Elderly  K.C.,  gallstones.  Most  handy  hav- 
ing the  bath  there.  So  few  in  the  Temple.  And  she  and 
I  stood  on  the  tiles  and  .  .  .  How  well  I  remember  the 
face  of  Big  Ben.  Tolling  midnight.  You  would  under- 
stand me  better  if  you  knew  her." 

"If  the  lady  you  mean  is  Miss  Nightingale,  I  know  her 
a  little,"  Adam  enjoyed  telling  him. 

"My  God!"  said  the  surgeon,  clapping  his  hand  to  his 
forehead,  "I  may  have  said  too  much."  He  told  the  wait- 
ress to  bring  some  soda  water,  and  went  on  after  he  had 
tossed  off  a  glass:  "You  understand  that  my  conversa- 
tion with  Miss  Nightingale  on  the  roof  of  Plowden  Build- 
ings was  purely  professional.  In  those  days  I  was  not  a 
consultant,  though  my  success  in  that  case,  not  properly 
one  for  me  at  all,  but  thanks  to  that  glorious  woman  I 
muddled  through,  gave  me  the  chance  I  wanted.  Elderly 
K.C.'s  great  friend,  famous  Law-Lord's  son,  biffed  arm 
playing  polo.  Top  sawyers  all  turned  him  down.  Hope- 
less. Elderly  K.C.  suggested  me.  I  sent  for  Miss  Night- 
ingale, and  between  us  we  somehow  brought  it  off.  She 
says  to  this  day  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  the  arm 
really.  Patient  of  that  kind  very  baffling  to  a  specialist. 
Hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  diagnose  is  nothing  at  all. 
That's  where  a  woman  comes  in.  I  owe  everything  in 
the  world  to  Miss  Nightingale.  I  wish  you  knew  her,  but 
of  course  you  do.  Look  here,  you  can  have  those  rooms 
for  nothing.  I'll  pay  the  rent  of  them  myself.  Can't 
bear  to  think  of  some  one  living  there  that  would  dishonor 


A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  215 

diem.  Or  look  here,  not  to  make  a  favor  of  it,  you  shall 
pay  what  you  can  afford.  Say  ten  shillings  a  week." 

Adam  warmly  declared  that  if  he  liked  the  rooms  he 
would  be  prepared  to  pay  one  pound  a  week  for  them. 

"A  pound  a  week,"  his  host  replied,  "they're  worth  ten 
pounds  at  least.  I  pay  seven,  but  what  does  it  matter? 
We  may  all  be  dead  to-morrow.  And  I've  said  you  shall 
have  them  for  ten  shillings,  not  a  penny  more." 

"It's  not  a  question  of  what  they're  worth,"  Adam  said, 
"it's  a  question  of  what  I  can  afford  to  pay." 

His  host  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  alternately 
lack-luster  and  radiant.  "I  understand,"  he  said;  "we'll 
compromise.  We'll  say  guineas."  He  thrust  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  ring,  from  which  with  strong 
and  nimble  hand,  oddly  out  of  keeping  with  his  how 
muzzy  speech,  he  detached  a  key.  "There!  For  sweet 
Jane  Nightingale's  sake,  keep  it  and  use  it.  Never  mind 
about  a  cheque;  any  time  will  do.  We  may  all  be  dead 
to-morrow." 

Adam  was  staring  at  the  proffered  key,  wondering  what 
course  to  follow,  when  their  waitress  fluttered  up,  ob- 
viously unhappy.  "Please,  there's  an  air-raid  warning  and 
we  must  put  out  the  lights  in  a  few  minutes."  The  key 
clinked  on  Adam's  plate  as  a  convulsive  movement  of  his 
host's  elbow  swept  the  empty  port  bottle  off  the  table. 
"My  God!"  said  he,  "will  the  Boches  never  leave  me 
alone?"  Tears  filled  his  eyes.  "They  have  a  down  on 
me,  the  Boches." 

"Aren't  they  awful?"  said  the  little  waitress,  "and  on 
Sunday,  too." 

"No  religion,  no  anything,"  said  the  surgeon,  "gross  ma- 
terialists. Can  I  have  a  liqueur?" 

"They  can  bring  it  to  you  in  the  basement,"  said  the 
waitress,  "we  can't  serve  anything  more  here.  All  the 
upper  part  of  the  club  is  closed  for  fear  of  bombs." 


2i6  IN  LONDON 

"My  God !"  said  the  surgeon.  "Bombs !  As  if  I  hadn't 
had  enough  bombs  in  France." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Adam,  sympathetically,  "you  get  a  lot 
of  bombing  in  France?" 

"In  France,"  said  the  surgeon  solemnly,  "you  get  every- 
thing all  the  time  and  so  you  don't  think  about  it.  But 
when  it  comes  to  being  bombed  in  London,  I  protest,  I 
protest.  In  London  there  are  women  and  children." 

"But  in  France,"  said  Adam,  "there  are  women  and 
children." 

The  surgeon  nodded.  "True,  and  in  Germany,  and 
.  .  ."  he  thought  for  a  long  time  and  said  with  great  dis- 
tinctness: "There  are  men  and  women  and  children,  and 
I  dare  say  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  Mesopotamia.  What 
of  that  ?  What  I  protest  against  is  the  Boches  being  here." 

The  manager  approached.  "I'm  afraid,  sir,  we  really 
must  put  out  the  light." 

The  major  looked  at  him.  "  'Put  out  the  light  and  then 
put  out  the  light,' "  he  intoned,  and  added  thoughtfully : 
"Miss  Marie  Corelli."  As  the  manager  still  stood  ex- 
pectant, as  though  the  mention  of  the  distinguished  novel- 
ist were  insufficient,  he  rose  and  said:  "Basement  in  the 
liqueurs." 

"Liqueurs  in  the  basement?"  said  the  manager.  "Cer- 
tainly, if  you  touch  the  bell  down  there." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  major,  then  dropping  his  hand 
confidentially  on  the  manager's  shoulder  he  said:  "Don't 
go  to  the  Front,  I  can  see  you're  unfit.  Rheumatoid 
Arthritis." 

The  manager's  respect  became  more  real.  "Is  that  what 
it's  called,  sir?  I've  often  wondered." 

"Thought  I  was  drunk,  did  he?"  said  the  surgeon  as  they 
crossed  the  hall,  now  sepulchrally  gloomy  with  the  welled 
staircase  in  darkness.  In  the  distance  could  be  heard  that 
thudding  with  which  Adam's  life  in  London  had  made 


A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  217 

him  familiar.     "He  may  have  it,  he  may  not.     Point  is,  I 
said  Rheumatoid  Arthritis." 

Down  below  in  the  basement  all  exterior  sounds  were 
drowned  by  a  little  choir  of  the  waitresses  singing  hymns. 
Adam  knew  very  few,  but  he  recognized  as  he  sat  beside 
his  host,  who  after  drinking  his  Benedictine  was  lulled  to 
sleep  by  the  music: — 

"Jesus  loves  me,  that  I  know, 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  so. 
Little  ones  to  Him  belong, 
They  are  weak  but  He  is  strong." 

The  words  recalled  to  Adam  the  last  day  he  had  spent 
in  Dublin,  that  Dublin  which  since  his  departure  had  been 
so  battered  by  the  ubiquitous  fist  of  war,  and  he  was  try- 
ing to  picture  to  himself  the  new  aspect  of  its  shell-riven 
and  burnt-out  streets,  when  a  crash  shook  the  building  to 
its  foundations,  and  the  psalm-singers  stopped  with  a 
shriek. 

"If  that  bomb  had  got  us,"  some  one  said,  and  faces 
paled,  those  that  were  not  pale  already.  But  the  major 
slept  on,  protected  from  fear  by  the  roar  of  his  own  snor- 
ing. An  hour  passed  in  silence,  at  first  anxious,  but  grad- 
ually gathering  calm.  Then  two  rumors  spread:  First 
that  the  bomb  had  got  Victoria  Station  and  secondly  that 
the  All-clear  signal  had  been  heard.  Adam  looked  at  his 
wrist-watch:  It  was  past  ten,  and  he  felt  so  tired  that 
if  his  host  did  not  wake  he  was  determined  to  steal  away 
without  disturbing  him. 

"Yes,"  that  worthy's  voice  boomed  suddenly  in  his  ear, 
"I  shall  always  bless  the  day  when  first  I  met  Miss  June 
Nightingale.  For  her  I  would  give  the  little  that  is  left 
of  my  life  and  the  whole  of  my  professional  career.  .  .  . 
Only  to  see  dear  old  Arthur  happy." 


2i8  IN  LONDON 

Adam  was  interested.     "With  her?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  really  knew  Arthur,"  said  his  host,  "as  I  know 
him,  you  would  understand  that  he  could  never  be  happy 
without." 

"Do  you  suggest,"  Adam  asked,  "that  he  is  unhappy?" 

"Tragic!"  boomed  the  surgeon,  "a  born  tragedian, 
Romeo." 

"The  All-clear  has  sounded,"  said  Adam. 

The  big  man  roused  himself.  "My  God!"  he  cried, 
"have  the  Boches  been  over  again?  Taking  photographs 
or  what?" 

"They  couldn't  be  taking  photographs  at  this  hour?" 
Adam  suggested. 

The  major  looked  at  his  watch.  "Eleven  o'clock.  A.M. 
or  P.M.?" 

"P.M.,"  said  Adam. 

"Ah!"  said  the  major  sagely,  "what  the  French  call 
twenty-three.  Wonderfully  practical  people.  Surgical  in- 
struments shocking  and  no  lint.  Seen  tourniquets  made 
of  newspaper.  Want  to  go  already?  All  right,  I'm  with 
you.  Let's  go  and  have  a  wash  first." 

After  he  had  buried  his  great  head  in  a  basin  full  of 
cold  water  the  major  was  markedly  sober.  "Let's  stroll 
across  Parliament  Square  to  the  Underground." 

"It  will  be  shorter,"  said  the  major  pensively,  as  they 
regained  the  vestibule  and  found  it  still  in  darkness:  "It 
will  be  shorter  if  we  go  out  at  the  back."  He  paused  to 
ask  the  porter:  "No  taxis  about  yet?" 

"Nothing  doing  in  taxis,  sir.  I  see  an  ambulance  go  by. 
Only  wheeled  traffic  to  speak  of,"  said  the  man  judicially. 

The  major  hesitated,  looking  out  towards  Victoria  Street, 
his  ears  caught  by  a  rush  of  lumbering  wheels. 

The  porter  shot  a  glance  through  the  drawn  blinds. 
"That's  an  Eleven  'bus.  Didn't  stop  at  the  corner.  Wants 
to  get  home." 


A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE  219 

"Naturally,"  said  the  major,  "so  do  we  all.  Blighty 
the  only  word.  .  .  .  No,  you  needn't  open  the  door.  We're 
going  out  by  Tothill  Street."  To  Adam  he  added  as  they 
descended  the  steps  once  more :  "We  may  be  able  to  jump 
on  a  'bus  at  the  corner  of  Whitehall,  and  if  not,  it's  only 
across  the  road  to  the  Underground  at  Westminster.  We 
can  change  at  Charing  Cross  to  the  Bakerloo.  Raids  don't 
affect  them." 

"Except  when  you  can't  get  up  or  down  for  the  crowd," 
Adam  laughed.  To  him  a  raid  was  still  an  agreeable  ex- 
citement. 

"Use  it  as  a  dug-out,  do  they?"  the  major  said  as  one 
disagreeably  impressed.  "I  heard  that,  but  I  didn't  be- 
lieve it.  Sort  of  thing  you  read  in  Punch.  Like  the 
curate's  egg,  not  necessarily  true.  I  was  dreaming  just 
now  that  Miss  Nightingale  and  I  were  in  a  dug-out  to- 
gether. The  Boches  were  putting  some  heavy  stuff  over, 
and  she  fainted,  and  Arthur  and  I  carried  her  in.  You 
know  what  dreams  are.  I  suppose  I  must  have  been 
asleep." 

A  full  moon  was  flooding  Westminster  as  they  emerged 
from  Tothill  Street.  The  night  was  silent  now  save  for 
the  muffled  chatter  of  groups  of  pedestrians  hurrying  on 
their  way.  Outside  Westminster  Hospital  stood  an  am- 
bulance, no  doubt  the  sole  wheeled  traffic  heard  by  the 
porter  in  Victoria  Street.  By  it  in  the  shadow  were  two 
vague  figures,  the  only  living  beings  not  in  motion. 

Adam  coughed  and  the  major  also  cleared  his  throat: 
the  Abbey  was  engulfed  in  waves  of  gunpowder  gas  which 
drifted  on  a  slow  breeze  across  Broad  Sanctuary.  The 
effect  was  of  fantastic  beauty. 

"Imagine  the  Huns  bombing  St.  Margaret's,"  Adam's 
companion  protested.  "Rheims  was  bad  enough.  All  this 
air  business  is  very  wrong.  Our  fellows  try  to  avoid 
buildings  as  much  as  possible.  Of  course,  it  can't  be  done, 


220  IN  LONDON 

but  it  shows  a  decent  English  spirit.  One  young  lad  I 
know  got  a  religious  procession  at  Frankfort,  but  he  man- 
aged to  avoid  the  church.  Miss  Nightingale  is  very  re- 
ligious. She  wanted  to  be  a  Cowley  sister.  ...  I 
shouldn't  like  to  see  her  bombed  even  by  one  of  our  own 
fellows.  .  .  .  Damned  if  I  don't  think  I'd  rather  be  blown 
to  bits  myself,  and  as  for  dear  old  Arthur  ...  I  believe 
that  chauffeur's  a  girl  from  the  set  of  her  shoulders." 
They  were  almost  beside  the  ambulance  now,  and  the  fig- 
ures came  up  less  vaguely  against  the  tail-board.  Adam 
opened  his  mouth  to  say  that  both  were  women,  when  the 
sky  blazed  an  instant,  and  as  his  ear-drums  shivered  to  a 
resounding  crash,  his  knees  knocked  together,  and  his 
lower  jaw  sent  his  teeth  convulsively  up  into  his  tongue. 

Then  he  saw  his  friend  bolting  with  elephantine  strides, 
his  head  thrown  forward,  back  to  the  club.  All  the  pedes- 
trians had  taken  to  their  heels  as  though  the  groups  had 
been  disrupted  by  the  concussion  of  the  bomb.  And  the 
night  was  hideous  with  the  Bedlamite  fury  of  artillery 
flinging  molten  fire  at  the  moon.  Yet  in  the  very  fore- 
ground of  the  picture  was  Peace  and  Mercy  symbolized  by 
two  gracious  figures:  the  women  at  the  ambulance.  The 
one,  Adam  perceived,  was  Miss  Nightingale:  the  other, 
the  chauffeur,  his  doubting  eyes  assured  him,  was  Wood- 
bine Blake. 

.  Both  looked  at,  but  neither  recognized  him:  their  nerves 
were  too  highly  strung  for  casual  greetings.  Another 
bomb  shook  the  earth,  but  the  sight  of  these  two  calm 
women  steadied  his  desire  to  run,  and  he  trudged  delib- 
erately down  Tothill  Street,  despite  a  spray  of  shrapnel 
rattling  in  the  roadway,  and  safely  reached  St.  James's, 
his  most  convenient  station. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 
IN  THE  TEMPLE 

As  Adam  descended  to  the  platform  of  the  Underground 
station,  the  crash  of  explosives  became  merged  in  the  roar 
of  wheels  and  the  grinding  of  brakes.  The  Inner  Circle 
trains  with  lights  switched  off  were  running,  or  rather 
crawling,  in  their  accustomed  orbit;  and,  as  Adam  entered 
the  tunnel  leading  to  Victoria,  the  thunder  of  constructive 
mechanism  seemed  finally  to  war  down  the  thunder  of 
destructive.  When  he  left  the  train  at  Praed  Street  his 
ear  caught  no  certain  echo  of  aerial  combat.  The  station 
was  sunk  in  gloom  as  sepulchral  as  St.  James's  Park;  but 
in  Norfolk  Square  the  brilliant  moon  had  a  chance  to  com- 
pensate more  than  adequately  for  the  absence  of  artificial 
light.  The  brasses  of  Miss  Durward's  door  reflected  its 
glory  as  Adam  thrust  key  in  lock  and  surprisedly  failed  to 
turn  it. 

He  tried  again  and  failed,  and  once  again.  Then, 
troubled  that  he  might  be  suffering  from  shell-shock  or 
intoxication,  he  withdrew  the  key  and  examined  it  in  the 
moonlight,  closely  enough  to  prove  that  it  was  not  his  own 
key.  .  .  .  That  was  in  his  pocket.  .  .  .  He  had  been  try- 
ing to  let  himself  in  with  the  key  of  the  chambers  once 
occupied  by  eminent  Counsel  at  the  top  of  Plowden  Build- 
ings. .  .  .  The  chambers  that  might  be  his  virtually  for 
the  asking.  .  .  .  That  is,  if  Major  Macfadden  Smith  held 
the  same  view  about  him  sober  as  when  tipsy.  .  .  .  Then 
he  remembered  something  about  guineas  which  seemed  in- 
consistent with  the  first  offer. 

It  would  appear  to  be  his  immediate  duty  to  ring  up 

221 


222  IN  LONDON 

the  major  and  advise  him  that  the  key  was  safe  in  his 
possession.  He  went  to  the  telephone  for  this  purpose, 
when  the  clock  on  Miss  Durward's  mantelpiece  striking 
midnight,  determined  him  to  wait  till  morning.  So  he  re- 
turned the  key  to  the  pocket  of  his  evening  waistcoat. 
And  in  the  morning  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  And 
so,  apparently,  had  the  major :  the  key  lay  undisturbed  until 
two  Sundays  later,  when  Adam  donned  the  waistcoat  that 
he  might  go  to  dine  with  the  lady  who  had  indirectly  led 
to  its  being  in  his  possession. 

But  ere  that  Sunday  came  a  fortnight  had  passed,  much 
widening  Adam's  experience.  For  the  first  thing  he  had 
done  on  Monday  morning  was  to  study  in  Miss  Durward's 
chosen  journal  the  advertisements  of  those  learned  in  the 
lore  of  motor-cars  and  prepared  for  a  consideration  to 
communicate  their  experience.  For  a  time  he  hovered  be- 
tween one  that  seemed  to  offer  the  mastery  of  the  automo- 
bile world  for  a  bagatelle,  and  another  which  proposed  to 
charge  him  stiffly  for  a  lesser  but  still,  as  he  understood, 
adequate  knowledge  of  driving  and  mechanism.  Possibly 
for  the  reason  that  the  map  showed  it  to  be  situated  within 
a  quarter  mile  of  Miss  Nightingale's  flat,  Adam  chose  the 
latter  garage.  He  did  not  sit  down  to  lunch  until  he  had 
invited  it  to  send  him  further  particulars.  And  on  Tues- 
day morning  a  handsome  pamphlet,  in  itself  justifying 
high  charges,  lay  upon  his  breakfast  plate.  The  engaging 
photographs  in  this  work,  showing  attractive  young  ladies 
dissecting,  under  the  guidance  of  affable  and  talented  en- 
gineers, the  priviest  entrails  of  massive  motor-cars,  appar- 
ently no  worse  for  the  trying  experience,  won  Adam's 
heart.  And  that  very  afternoon  he  found  time  to  visit  the 
office,  where  he  formally  agreed  to  commence  the  study  of 
this  mystery  in  the  early  morning  of  the  following  Monday. 
After  he  had  paid  the  first  instalment  of  his  fees  he  was 
warned,  as  an  afterthought,  that  while  he  was  free  to  hear 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  223 

the  principles  of  the  petrol  engine  and  its  handling  ex- 
haustively demonstrated,  it  was  impossible  owing  to  the 
shortage  of  petrol  to  guarantee  that  he  would  ever  actually 
be  able  to  drive  a  car  in  a  manner  satisfactory  even  to 
himself.  This  a  little  damped  Adam's  ardor  and  made  him 
feel  the  need  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  presence,  but  in  as  much 
as  he  had  paid  three  guineas,  never,  as  he  conjectured,  to 
be  seen  again,  he  decided  to  pursue  the  adventure. 

He  did  not  regret  it,  nor  the  new  world  in  which  he 
found  himself  that  Monday  morning,  as  he  left  the 
train  at  Victoria  and  made  his  way  through  the  smelly 
streets  of  Pimlico  to  the  Eaton-Ebury  Motor  Training 
School.  There  he  found  himself  amidst  sprightly  lasses 
and  would-be  sprightly  if  elderly  lads,  with  a  sprinkling 
of  the  genuine  youth  of  Britain  eager  to  fly  ere  they  well 
could  walk;  and  all  learnedly  discussing  the  merits  of  the 
many  types  of  engines  they  had  never  handled,  nor  per- 
haps (owing  to  the  shortage  of  petrol)  ever  would.  He 
felt  as  might  an  unconverted  Gentile  among  zealous  cate- 
chumens. He  strove  to  harmonize  himself  with  his  en- 
vironment by  mentioning  such  facts  as  he  could  remember 
about  Dr.  Ahearn's  Ford,  but  quickly  realized  that  the 
interest  he  roused  was  not  complimentary.  He  blushed 
when  one  young  impertinent  demanded  to  know  if  Dublin 
had  nothing  more  like  a  car  than  a  Tin  "Lizzie.  For  the 
moment  he  had  an  odd  feeling  of  being  once  more  a  little 
boy  just  entered  at  Belvedere.  Remembering  that  from 
the  first  he  had  worked  hard  at  his  lessons  there,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  no  less  now. 

On  the  Tuesday  night  Mrs.  Onsin  complained  that  he 
ruined  her  great  scene  in  the  third  act  of  What  Rot! 
wherein  it  was  his  duty  to  be  seen  but  not  heard,  while 
she  poured  forth  a  tirade  against  faithless  lovers  falsely 
true,  by  muttering  without  cease  the  devastating  words: 
"Induction,  Compression,  Explosion,  Exhaust.  .  .  ."  "If 


224  IN  LONDON 

I  only  knew  what  it  meant!"  the  fair  Belinda  cried,  "I 
might  have  stood  it  better." 

"It  means,"  said  her  husband,  with  unusual  aptness  of 
irony,  "Quinn  took  you  for  a  gas-engine." 

But  Adam  modestly  explained  that  he  was  so  hypnotized 
by  the  force  of  her  acting  that  he  unconsciously  repeated 
his  lessons;  and  on  promising  never  more  to  allow  himself 
to  be  so  moved  by  her  art,  he  was  forgiven.  He  was  still 
a  favorite  with  his  manageress,  though  she  had  long  since 
ceased  to  coquette  with  him,  protesting  that  he  was  (even 
as  Miss  Durward  alleged  of  Tomasso)  "No  earthly."  Al- 
though Miss  Durward  had  urged  more  than  fully  the  ad- 
vantages to  be  derived  from  it,  Adam  had  never  brought 
himself  even  to  flirt  with  Mrs.  Onsin,  nor  could  he  per- 
suade himself  that  she  desired  it.  To  him  she  bore  a 
rather  painful  likeness  to  his  mother  as  he  remembered 
her  in  the  beginning,  ere  drink  had  destroyed  her  vulgar 
comeliness.  Made  up  to  match  the  lighting,  Belinda  looked 
plump  and  appetizing  in  that  great  theater;  but  daylight 
betrayed  her  contours  as  bulging  where  they  should  not 
and  her  complexion  as  a  crude  example  of  plastic  art. 
When  peace  should  free  a  younger  generation  of  critics 
to  push  the  dug-outs  from  the  stalls,  she  was  clearly  doomed 
to  be  written  off  and  filed  as  a  back  number. 

That  first  week  at  the  garage  Adam  found  strange  the 
difference  between  the  apparently  strenuous  labor  of  the 
neophyte  engineers  dismounting  and  reassembling  motors 
in  the  shops,  and  the  hustling  make-believe  of  a  play  which 
too  prolonged  success  had  sapped  of  its  vitality.  Yet,  as 
slowly  came  home  to  him,  the  labor  of  the  Eaton-Ebury 
garage  was  largely  make-believe  too,  and  the  engines  whose 
valves  enthusiastic  young  beauties  ground  and  magnetos 
ingenious  Portias  timed,  if  they  had  ever  urged  a  living 
car  along  the  road,  would  do  so  never  again. 

Dining  with  Miss  Nightingale  he  loosed  his  tongue  in 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  225 

praise  of  his  new  interest;  and  Miss  Nightingale  with  tem- 
pered warmth  (or  what  seemed  warmth  in  that  cold  room) 
encouraged  him.  She  was  a  devotee  of  the  politer  writings 
of  Mr.  Kipling,  and  on  this  occasion  appeared  to  share  his 
mystical  faith  in  the  spiritual  triumph  of  machinery  over 
men.  Not  that  Miss  Nightingale  was  pettily  consistent 
in  her  admiration  of  Mr.  Kipling.  Mr.  Macarthy  had 
once  decoyed  her  into  saying  that  the  Piccadilly  Tube  was 
more  to  be  admired  than  Shakespeare's  sonnets;  but  she 
never  concealed  the  opinion  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
was  in  every  way  superior  to  his  mechanical  relatives  and 
second  only  in  importance  among  "Englishmen"  to  Mr. 
Ruskin.  For  the  rest,  her  arguments  were  always  phrased 
with  such  distinction  and  air  of  reserve  that  one  felt  that 
there  must  be  something  behind  them  which  to  him  who 
might  win  her  heart,  and  to  him  alone,  could  be  divulged. 

Adam  found  it  the  most  delightful  evening  he  had  spent 
with  her,  and  came  away  feeling  that  he  had  risen  much 
in  her  estimation.  As  she  was  letting  him  out  he  chanced 
to  touch  the  second  latchkey  in  his  pocket  and  said :  "Oh, 
by  the  way,  did  you  ever  meet  Arthur  Sackville's  brother?" 

"I  have  met  Mr.  Macfadden  Smith,  the  surgeon,"  she 
said  simply,  and  the  brevity  of  her  answer  damped  Adam's 
desire  to  take  her  opinion  about  the  rooms  in  Plowden 
Buildings.  As  it  were,  realizing  an  awkwardness  in  his 
silence,  she  volunteered  the  information  that  the  major 
had  returned  to  the  Western  Front,  and  added :  "He  told 
me  how  plucky  you  had  been  about  your  arm." 

Adam  heroically  pooh-poohed  his  arm.  "Only,  of 
course,"  he  said  with  breezy  pathos,  "it's  hard  lines  at  my 
age  to  know  there's  no  hope  of  reaching  the  firing-line." 

His  hostess  looked  at  him  sweetly.  "The  war  may  be 
going  on  for  a  long  time,"  she  said,  "and  Mr.  Macfadden 
Smith  quite  shares  my  view  that  massage  might  make  it 
flexible  enough  for  all  practical  purposes  in  a  year  or  two." 


226  IN  LONDON 

Adam  was  not  sure  whether  he  quavered  the  words: 
"How  ripping  that  would  be.  .  .  ."  It  seemed  to  him  he 
reached  the  street  immediately  after  that;  and  instead  of 
making  his  way  directly  home,  he  jumped  on  the  first  'bus 
he  saw  in  Victoria  Street.  As  he  climbed  on  the  roof  he 
noticed  that  it  was  an  Eleven  going  east;  and  handing  the 
conductor  twopence  (in  those  days  when  'bus  riding  was 
not  confined  to  the  wealthy)  was  franked  as  far  as  Chan- 
cery Lane.  But  he  did  not  travel  quite  so  far,  for  seeing 
the  Middle  Temple  gate  opening  to  admit  a  taxi,  as  the 
'bus  swept  under  the  Law  Courts'  clock  he  was  moved  by 
some  unaccountable  impulse  to  plunge  down  to  the  road- 
way, and  with  an  easy  nod  and  mutter  of  "Plowden  Build- 
ings" to  the  janitor  closing  the  gate,  he  passed  on  down 
Middle  Temple  Lane. 

He  had  never  been  within  the  precincts  of  the  Temple 
before,  and  as  the  bolts  shot  behind  him  was  conscious  of 
a  pang  of  misgiving  as  to  how  he  should  get  out  again. 
He  might  have  turned  to  retrace  his  steps  but  for  the  dread 
of  rousing  the  janitor's  suspicions.  Deciding  that  his  saf- 
est course  was  to  go  to  the  address  he  had  mentioned  and 
presently  return  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  paid  a  some- 
what late  evening  call.  The  Law  Courts'  clock  had  gone 
eleven.  But  where,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  was 
Plowden  Buildings?  Forgetting  that  it  had  been  at  its 
zenith  a  fortnight  ago,  he  vaguely  hoped  for  the  moon  to 
pierce  a  cloud  and  light  him  on  his  way;  the  war-time 
lamps  of  the  Temple  discreetly  revealed  nothing.  .  .  . 
Until  he  came  to  a  pile  appearing  to  reach  the  clouds 
whereon  was  revealed  to  him  by  glimmering  gas  a  figure 
he  thought  might  be  eight.  That  was  not  the  number  that 
he  wanted,  but  there  were  other  letterings  that  he  thought 
daylight  might  force  to  reveal  the  identity  of  Plowden 
Buildings.  So  here  he  lingered,  pondering  what  to  do 
next.  He  was  roused  by  a  faint  bang  high  above  him, 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  227 

as  though  one  of  the  smaller  gates  of  heaven  had  been 
blown  to  by  a  draught.  There  followed  the  high-pitched 
tinkle  of  a  young  woman's  voice,  punctuated  by  a  manly 
growl  implying  weariness  of  conversation,  and  light  steps 
and  heavy  first  pattered  and  then  reverberated  down  a 
wooden  staircase.  A  change  in  the  character  of  the  sounds 
told  that  the  feet  had  reached  stone  paving.  Hidden  in 
the  lane,  Adam  saw  a  man  and  a  woman,  the  former  wear- 
ing khaki,  which  not  even  the  softening  shades  of  night 
could  blend  with  his  figure,  and  the  latter  dressed  also  in 
the  costume  of  the  period,  were  at  once  swallowed  in  ob- 
scurity, the  lady  becoming  silent,  perhaps  under  compul- 
sion as  they  moved  towards  Fleet  Street. 

Adam  told  himself  that  discretion  ordained  that  he  should 
follow  them:  for  if  they  went  out  unquestioned,  why  not 
he?  ...  Then  he  recalled  reading  in  the  pages  of  George 
Moore  something  that  would  imply  that  life  in  the  Temple 
was  not  so  cloistral  as  the  name  of  that  famous  place  por- 
tended. He  no  longer  dreaded  the  janitor's  Ne  exeat  .  .  . 
he  was  even  emboldened,  as  it  were,  by  the  fluttering 
gesture  of  half-remembered  paragraphs  from  the  pen  of 
that  compatriot,  to  seek  adventure.  He  penetrated  to  the 
hall  of  the  building  and,  striking  a  match,  read  painted  on 
the  wall  some  famous  names  that  meant  nothing  to  him, 
but  also  the  information  that  one  set  of  chambers  on  the 
top  floor  still  stood  in  the  name  (albeit  painted  so  long 
ago  as  to  be  hardly  decipherable)  of  Sir  Levi  Lee,  K.C. 
.  .  .  He  asked  himself  was  that  Sir  Levi  Lee  but  just 
gone  up  the  road,  and  decided  that  the  figure,  however 
remote  from  martial,  could  not  have  been  that  of  an  elderly 
advocate.  .  .  .  Nor  was  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  too 
vocal  gentlewoman  who  accompanied  him  was  Lady  Lee. 
.  .  .  The  finger  from  the  past  urged  him  up  the  staircase. 
In  its  simple  elegance  it  reminded  him  of  nothing  so  much 
as  that  which  through  its  failure  to  uphold  his  manly  form, 


228  IN  LONDON 

when  in  anger,  had  put  a  term  to  the  existence  of  his  puta- 
tive father.  He  reached  the  top  breathless,  to  find  himself 
in  front  of  two  doors :  that  on  the  right  hand  bore  several 
names  above  it,  but  on  the  left,  that  of  the  noble  Sir  Levi 
warred  in  solitary  dignity  its  battle  against  time. 

Headlong  now,  Adam  plunged  Major  Macfadden  Smith's 
key  in  the  lock,  and,  unacquainted  with  the  habits  of  Tem- 
ple doors,  strove  to  push  it  in.  It  resisted  his  efforts,  but 
yielded  readily  to  his  invitation  to  meet  him.  But  within 
was  another  door,  and  Adam  realized  that  he  had  merely 
penetrated  that  outer  shell  known  to  Templars  and  Col- 
legers as  the  Oak.  In  the  other  scale  he  found  encourage- 
ment in  the  form  of  a  letter  which  had  been  dropped 
through  the  outer  letter-box  and  was  directed  in  a  woman's 
handwriting  to  Major  Macfadden  Smith,  R.A.M.C.  In- 
spired by  this  to  a  Napoleonic  grasp  of  possibilities,  he 
thrust  his  hand  through  the  letter-box  of  the  inner  door, 
and  twiddling  his  forefinger,  realized  his  expectation  by 
contact  with  a  piece  of  string.  With  a  snap  the  door 
opened. 

Then  came  reaction:  peering  into  the  ghostly  darkness 
of  those  antique  chambers,  across  the  floor  of  which  he 
could  see  the  reflections  of  London's  sky-quartering  search- 
lights whirling  like  phantom  windmills,  he  was  so  con- 
scious of  utter  silence  that  it  might  have  eased  his  nerves 
had  a  raven  on  the  portal  quoth  "Never  more."  But 
nothing  so  American  and  fantastic  could  occur  in  those 
rooms  in  the  apex  of  the  monument  to  the  most  respectable 
of  English  jurists,  the  proverbial  Plowden.  Sir  Levi  Lee's 
fevered  brain  might  have  called  up  the  specter  of  a  Mass 
priest,  but  no  ghostly  bird,  unless  the  secred  Dove,  in 
which  it  is  only  fair  to  Sir  Levi  to  say,  he  would  not  have 
believed.  Toeing  the  mat  of  those  ancient  chambers  Adam 
felt  not  at  all  jocose :  his  great  desire  was  to  wheel  about 
and  run  downstairs  and  out  of  the  Temple  as  fast  as  he 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  229 

could  go:  he  visualized  himself  at  home  with  his  head 
protected,  as  Miss  Durvvard  protected  hers  against  welkin- 
riding  Huns,  but  he  remembered  reading  somewhere  the 
Zulu  saying:  "If  we  go  forward  we  die:  if  we  go  back- 
ward we  die:  better  go  forward  and  die."  As  a  com- 
promise he  struck  a  match.  This  woke  a  comforting  gleam 
from  the  brass  switch  of  an  electric  lamp,  and  bravely 
Adam  pressed  it.  He  was  at  once  reassured;  for  that  an- 
cient shell  revealed  itself  as  furnished  in  a  manner  as 
repulsive  to  self-respecting  ghosts  as  the  ingenuity  of 
Tottenham  Court  Road  could  devise.  Sir  Levi  Lee  him- 
self might  have  complained  that  his  chambers,  if  they  had 
gained  in  comfort  since  he  left  them,  had  suffered  in  char- 
acter. On  the  other  hand,  Adam  thought,  his  semi-demi 
kinswoman,  Lady  Derrydown,  might  have  found  it  to  her 
taste;  for  that  masterpiece,  "A  Toi,"  would  have  felt  more 
at  home  here  than  in  Eaton  Place. 

Laughing  at  himself,  Adam  entered  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  If  he  wanted  to  get  home  to-night  he  would 
have  to  walk,  and  he  was  in  no  mood  for  so  long  a  tramp. 
After  all,  the  rooms  were  his  in  the  absence  of  evidence 
to  the  contrary.  Certainly  Major  Macfadden  Smith  would 
not  object  to  his  passing  a  night  in  them  by  way  of  trying 
how  he  liked  them.  ...  To  pass  the  night.  .  .  .  He 
glanced  up  a  flight  of  stairs  ascending  from  the  hall.  The 
famous  bedroom  with  the  bath  in  it  and  the  way  out  on 
to  the  roof  must  be  up  there.  Below  on  a  level  with  the 
hall  were  three  doors:  two  closed  and  one  open;  through 
the  open  doorway  had  come  the  reflection  of  the  search- 
lights. That  meant  the  blinds  were  not  drawn  and  his 
electric  lamp  could  attract  the  attention  of  those  who  were 
responsible  for  the  shading  of  the  Temple  lights.  He  had 
better  see  to  it  that  those  blinds  were  drawn  at  once.  .  .  . 

Unhesitatingly  he  strode  forward  and  entered  the  room 
where  he  now  could  clearly  see  three  large  windows,  two 


230  IN  LONDON 

in  one  wall  and  one  in  another,  so  he  closed  that  door,  too, 
behind  him.  As  he  did  so  he  felt  horribly  that  this  time 
he  really  had  shut  himself  off  from  the  world  he  knew, 
and  entered  one  in  which  he  was  not  alone:  he  knew  for 
sure  that  in  that  strange  room  in  which  there  was  enough 
light  to  see  that  it  was  different  in  every  way  from  the 
rest,  there  was  a  familiar  though  unrecognizable  presence. 
He  was  thrilled  but  not  terrified.  .  .  .  Though  one  of  the 
windows,  for  no  reason  that  he  could  understand,  con- 
jured up  a  vision  of  the  window  through  which  his  grand- 
mother had  gone  to  her  end.  .  .  .  No,  he  was  not  fright- 
ened; the  presence  in  the  room  was  not  a  hostile  one; 
deliberately  he  drew  the  curtains  even  of  that  sinister  win- 
dow. As  he  did  so  the  wing  of  his  evening  cape  swept 
some  object  from  a  table  beside  it,  and  it  flapped  down 
upon  the  floor.  Striking  a  match  to  search  for  it,  he  saw 
that  it  was  a  book,  that  it  had  fallen  open,  and  that  from 
its  pages  the  eyes  of  his  grandfather,  Sir  Byron-Quinn, 
looked  up  at  him,  as  they  had  once  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  Lady  Daphne  Page  who  died  Marchesa  della  Venasal- 
vatica. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 
ADAM  IS  OFFENDED 

BY  the  flickering  light  of  the  match  Adam  knelt  in  that 
high  and  lonely  room  staring  at  dead  of  night  in  the  mys- 
terious eyes  of  his  grandfather,  lost  in  battle  half  a  gen- 
eration before  he  was  born.  Then  in  a  second  the  match 
went  out  and  he  was  alone  in  the  dark,  still  feeling  those 
eyes  meet  his.  .  .  .  And  yet  he  was  not  frightened. 
Lifting  the  book  in  his  left  hand,  just  as  it  had  fallen 
open  on  the  floor,  he  walked  deliberately  towards  the 
door,  counting  on  finding  there  a  switch  controlling 
the  electric  lighf.  With  that  on,  the  room  revealed 
itself  as  being  unlike  the  others,  because  the  walls  were 
still  paneled  in  oak,  and  against  these  panels  Tottenham 
Court  Road  failed  to  do  more  than  appear  insignificant. 
But  Adam  was  not  concerned  about  the  furniture  nor  even 
the  room.  What  held  him  was  the  question  how  that 
book  had  come  there:  the  first  copy  of  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn's  poems  he  had  come  across  in  England,  though 
Lady  Derrydown  claimed  to  have  one  somewhere  which, 
some  day  when  occasion  served,  she  would  read. 

His  own  copy  of  the  poems,  given  him  by  the  Marchesa 
as  a  Christmas  present  when  he  was  a  child  just  entering 
his  teens  and  neither  of  them  suspecting  their  relationship, 
was  not  among  the  books  Mr.  Macarthy  had  sent  him  on 
from  Dublin;  and  he  had  felt  a  shyness  in  asking  for  it, 
knowing  that  his  guardian  modestly  esteemed  the  baronet's 
muse,  and  seemed  to  think  that  but  for  his  social  position 
it  might  have  blushed  unheard.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr. 

231 


232  IN  LONDON 

Arthur  Sackville,  to  whom  he  had  recited  certain  chosen 
excerpts  as  best  he  could  remember  them,  had  declared  the 
poet  to  be  one  of  the  best,  and  inscribed  his  name  on  his 
shirtcuff,  in  those  days  a  notable  compliment.  Recalling 
the  actor's  gesture  as  he  drew  his  fountain  pen,  Adam 
guessed  how  the  book  had  found  its  way  into  those  cham- 
bers. 

And  rightly  did  he  guess;  for  on  the  flyleaf  of  the  vol- 
ume he  read  in  the  neat  characters  of  Mr.  Sackville  this 
legend:  "To  my  eminent  and  heroic  brother  'Mac'  on  his 
fifty-first  birthday,  these  beautiful  poems  by  the  grand- 
father of  my  friend,  Adam  Quinn,  esq.,  knowing  that  he 
will  find  in  them  sentiments  after  his  own  gallant  and  soft 
heart  and  head,  from  his  only  but  truly  optimistic 
brother,  Arthur  Sackville  Macfadden  Smith.  17th  June, 
1917." 

Adam  sank  into  a  saddle-bag  chair,  the  book  still  in  hand, 
and  laughed  with  greater  heartiness  than  he  had  felt  for 
some  time.  He  wished  Mr.  Macarthy  were  with  him  to 
share  the  joke;  for  what  had  seemed  so  ominous  and 
tragical,  not  to  say  downright  supernatural,  had  suddenly 
become  a  mere  ludicrous  coincidence  now  that  he  guessed 
the  chain  of  events  leading  up  to  it.  The  haunted  room 
itself  was  now  nothing  more  than  an  old-fashioned  apart- 
ment with  comparatively  new-fashioned  furniture,  more 
comfortable  than  beautiful,  and  an  upright  grand  piano. 
.  .  .  All  the  same,  he  did  not  feel  like  staring  his  grand- 
father in  the  face,  so  he  closed  the  book  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  beside  him  when,  by  a  process  easy  enough  to  under- 
stand, but  uncanny  to  behold,  it  proceeded  to  open  itself 
again  until  Adam  caught  sight  of  the  words:  "The  Dead 
Lover."  He  knew  the  poem  by  heart;  for  he  had  heard 
it  for  the  first  time  on  one  of  the  most  memorable  days 
of  his  life,  but  he  was  impelled  to  take  it  up  and  read  it 
again  now. 


ADAM  IS  OFFENDED  233 

"When  that  I  was  alive  there  were  women  that  loved  me; 
When  that  I  was  alive  they  loved  only  me; 
And  that  I  could  do  no  wrong  was  the  burden  of  the 

song 
Of  the  dear  good  women  that  loved  me. 

Now  that  I  am  dead  those  good  women  that  loved  me 
Are  sought  by  other  lovers  happily,  oh,  happily, 
And  in  my  narrow  bed  I  can  hear  as  I  lie  dead 
Little  feet  that  I  have  kissed  dance  lightly  over  me. 

Yet  though  in  my  grave  I  lie,  I  laugh  deliciously 
At  the  foolish  living  lovers  that  are  dancing  over  me — 
For  the  Queens  of  all  their  toasts  are  the  cold  and  care- 
less ghosts 

Of  the  women  that  have  loved  me  and  are  lying  dead 
with  me." 

He  found  himself  trying  to  hum  it  to  the  tune  which 
Barbara  Burns  had  made  for  it  and  he  had  heard  her  sing 
for  the  first  time  as  he  read  of  the  death  of  Caroline  Brady. 
But  the  tune  would  not  come.  Laying  down  the  book  he 
went  over  to  the  piano  and  tried  gently  to  finger  it  out  there. 
.  .  .  But  the  tune  would  not  come.  He  closed  the  piano, 
conscious  of  a  growing  desire  to  sleep.  His  wrist-watch  told 
him  it  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  room  was 
very  cold :  he  was  overwhelmed  with  the  desire  to  sleep, 
and  remembered  the  bedroom  upstairs.  So  up  he  went, 
switching  on  electric  lights  everywhere  without  misgiving. 
He  saw  that  the  room  looked  comfortable:  he  felt  that  the 
bed  was  comfortable:  he  drew  off  his  boots  and,  without 
undressing,  snuggled  under  an  eiderdown  and  fell  fast 
asleep.  .  .  .  He  was  awakened  by  the  postman's  knock 
to  find  daylight  and  the  electric  light  struggling  together. 

At  his  age  the  instinct  roused  by  the  postman's  knock 


234  IN  LONDON 

was  stronger  than  reason.  He  leaped  from  bed,  ran  down- 
stairs, and  picked  up  the  letter.  He  was  disappointed  to 
find  that  it  was  not  for  him  but  for  Major  Macfadden 
Smith.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  interested  to  notice 
that  it  was  directed  in  the  same  feminine  hand  as  the  letter 
he  had  found  on  the  mat  the  night  before :  glancing  at  that, 
he  found  that  it  must  have  been  there  a  week,  just  missing 
the  addressee.  Then  his  wakened  interest  inquired  why 
the  major  had  his  letters  addressed  to  Plowden  Buildings 
rather  than  Devonshire  Street.  .  .  .  Did  he  lead  a  double 
life?  .  .  .  Fascinating  thought,  a  double  life.  .  .  .  But 
Adam  thought  that  if  he  led  a  double  life  he  would  try  to 
lead  it  a  trifle  less  carelessly.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  friendly 
thing  to  do  would  be  to  take  the  two  letters  with  him  and 
send  them  on  to  the  major  when  writing  to  him,  as  he 
would  at  once,  about  the  key.  .  .  .  About  the  key?  .  .  . 
And  what  about  his  taking  the  chambers?  He  thought 
they  would  be  well  worth  a  pound  a  week  or  even  more 
to  him  if  the  major  really  wished  to  let  them,  though  why 
they  should  be  worth  anything  to  him  he  did  not  clearly 
know.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  be  able  to  speak  of  "My 
chambers  in  the  Temple,"  and  even  if  he  only  kept  them  for 
a  week  or  two,  he  would  still  be  entitled  to  refer  to  the 
time  when  he  had  chambers  in  that  famous  place.  In 
short,  it  seemed  to  him  to  mark  a  fresh  stage  in  the  growth 
of  manhood.  .  .  .  He  thought  he  might  at  least  have  ten 
pounds'  worth  of  being  a  Templar.  Striking  a  chord  on 
the  piano,  he  was  so  impressed  by  the  richness  of  its  tone 
that  he  felt  he  could  not  offer  the  major  less  than  two 
pounds  a  week,  so  ten  pounds  would  give  him  five  glorious 
weeks,  and  no  one  in  the  world  need  ever  know  about  it 
unless  he  told  them;  for  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  these 
rooms  in  the  Temple  would  not  keep  themselves  clean  even 
though  he  should  refrain  from  putting  them  to  hard  use. 
Returning  to  the  bedroom  he  found  that  the  bath  therein 


ADAM  IS  OFFENDED  235 

was  heated  from  a  geyser  and  the  geyser  workable,  so 
with  the  delight  of  a  child  in  a  new  toy  he  turned  on  the 
water,  lit  the  gas,  and  was  presently  reveling  in  a  hot  bath. 
It  was,  however,  somewhat  of  an  anticlimax  to  find  that  he 
had  failed  to  provide  himself  with  a  towel,  and  was  re- 
duced to  getting  into  the  bed,  which  fortunately  was  fully 
made,  and  drying  himself  between  the  sheets.  This  was 
a  course  the  objections  to  which  he  perceived,  but  as  a 
practical  young  gentleman  he  preferred  it  to  catching  cold. 
Presently,  when  he  had  dressed,  he  took  the  bed  to  pieces, 
hanging  sheets  and  blankets  over  chairs  to  air.  By  this 
time  it  was  nearly  nine,  his  usual  breakfast  hour,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  a  vast  appetite.  So  making  sure  that  he 
had  left  things  as  nearly  as  possible  as  he  had  found  them, 
the  electric  lights  off  and  the  curtains  in  the  drawing-room 
opened  and  the  piano  closed,  he  took  the  two  letters,  ascer- 
tained that  the  key  was  in  his  pocket,  and  went  out,  bang- 
ing both  doors  behind  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  back  in  Fleet  Street,  the  Law 
Courts'  clock  holding  out  the  information  that  he  had 
been  ten  hours  within  the  Temple  gates :  and  turned  west  in 
search  of  the  Temple  Station,  not  knowing  that  his  direct 
way  to  it  would  have  been  down  Middle  Temple  Lane  to 
the  Embankment.  Advised  now  by  a  constable  to  take 
the  first  street  on  the  left,  he  turned  into  Essex  Street, 
when  his  ever-sharpening  appetite  halted  him  at  the  Ex- 
press Dairy,  and  into  that  he  went  and  demanded  food. 
A  poached  egg  on  toast  with  a  meager  scrap  of  bread  and 
butter  or  some  substitute,  washed  down  with  tea,  kept  him 
so  occupied  that  he  was  slow  to  perceive  that  the  wait- 
resses made  him  the  subject  of  much  whispered  conversa- 
tion. When  he  did  realize  it,  he  flattered  himself  that 
they  recognized  in  him  an  already  famous  young  actor, 
until  a  chance  phrase  gave  him  a  clue  to  the  suspicion  that 
they  were  making  spicy  jokes  about  his  being  in  evening 


236  IN  LONDON 

clothes  at  that  hour  of  the  day.  The  impropriety  of  his 
costume  brought  home"  to  him,  he  buttoned  his  overcoat 
carefully  and  hurried  on  past  the  publishing  offices  in  Essex 
Street,  plunged  down  the  steps  to  the  Embankment,  ran 
lightly  through  the  few  yards  of  garden,  and  so  into  the 
Temple  Station  and  an  Inner  Circle  train  on  the  outer  rail. 
Between  there  and  Praed  Street  it  occurred  to  him  that 
this  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  stopping  at  Miss 
Durward's  that  he  had  spent  a  night  out.  But  despite 
the  flutter  of  the  waitresses  at  the  sight  of  him  in  evening 
clothes,  the  full  significance  of  this  to  the  ordinary  mind 
escaped  him  until  he  read  in  Tomasso's  leering  eyes  a  sus- 
picion that  offended  him. 

Still  worse  was  it  when  Miss  Durward  herself  called  to 
him  archly  as  he  ascended  the  stairs:  "You  might  have 
told  me  you  were  going  on  the  tiles." 

Adam  marched  hotly  in  upon  her  where  she  sat  in  her 
den  checking  her  accounts,  for  it  was  Monday  morning. 
"Did  you  speak  to  me?"  he  asked. 

"Did  I  speak  to  you,"  Miss  Durward  drawled  banter- 
ingly,  "now,  did  I  speak  to  you?  If  I  did,  you  ought  to 
be  flattered  at  my  taking  notice  of  you  after  being  such 
a  naughty  boy.  Some  ladies  I  know  would  complain  of 
your  deserting  them." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Adam  shortly. 

"La,  la,  la,"  laughed  Miss  Durward,  "don't  make  a 
mystery  of  it  to  me.  I  didn't  expect  you  to  go  on  pre- 
tending to  be  my  maiden  aunt  for  ever.  It  really  isn't  good 
for  a  young  man,  you  know,  to  go  on  like  that,  whatever 
your  chaste  friend,  Miss  Nightingale,  may  say  about  it. 
For  I  don't  suppose  it  was  she  kept  you." 

It  seemed  to  Adam  that,  as  Miss  Durward  spoke,  her 
face,  half -turned  to  him  at  an  ugly  angle,  became  utterly 
vile:  and  all  the  more  so  because  it  recalled  his  mother's 
as  he  could  still  remember  it  when  she  bantered  his  father 


ADAM  IS  OFFENDED  237 

covertly  in  the  presence  of  her  husband.     "No  woman  kept 
me,"  said  he. 

"Don't  try  to  get  out  of  it  by  calling  her  a  flapper,"  Miss 
Durward  fleered.  "What  did  she  rook  you  for,  anyway?" 

The  thought  of  women  who  sold  their  bodies  filled  Adam 
with  pity;  but  of  the  men  who  bought  them  he  thought 
with  loathing;  and  the  women  who  used  their  better  for- 
tune to  jest  at  such  transaction  he  looked  on  with  horror 
and  disgust.  Miss  Durward  read  something  of  this  in  his 
eye,  but  misinterpreted  it.  "Don't  be  a  humbug,"  she 
sniggered,  "and  tell  me  you've  been  playing  cards." 

"I'll  tell  you  nothing,"  Adam  answered  hotly,  and  went 
to  his  room. 

After  this  scene  between  them  he  felt  he  could  no  longer 
remain  under  Miss  Durward's  roof;  and  he  sat  down  at 
once,  still  in  his  evening  clothes,  to  write  to  Major  Mac- 
fadden  Smith  a  formal  proposal  for  the  hire  of  his  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple.  But  he  had  not  satisfied  himself  with 
the  opening  phrase  when  he  heard  a  tap  at  the  door  and 
found  his  hostess  there  smiling  good-naturedly. 

"It's  all  right,  old  man,"  she  said,  "only  I  was  afraid 
you  were  ill." 

Adam's  tone  was  still  stiff  as  he  asked:  "Why  should 
you  suppose  I  was  ill?" 

But  she  returned,  unruffled:  "What  about  your  gar- 
age?" 

Adam's  hands  tore  across  his  sheet  of  paper.  "The 
devil !"  he  cried.  "I'd  forgotten."  And  he  added  heartily : 
"Thanks  awfully,  Miss  Durward." 

In  fact  he  had  missed  a  lecture  in  mechanics,  and,  what 
was  more  serious,  would  miss  his  driving  lesson  if  he  lost 
another  ten  minutes.  Keeping  his  shirt  and  collar,  he 
changed  his  tie  and  outer  garments,  and  within  a  quarter- 
hour  was  sailing  along  Praed  Street  on  the  Victoria  'bus. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 
AT  THE  GARAGE 

ADAM  was  just  in  time  for  his  driving  lesson;  as  he  ap- 
proached the  gate  of  the  garage  the  Overland  car  wherein 
he  took  his  lessons  stole  past  him  down  the  narrow  street, 
allowing  him  a  glimpse  of  a  lady  at  the  wheel  beside  the 
instructor.  When  he  turned  in  at  the  gate  he  saw  her 
tripping  on  nimble  feet  up  the  iron  staircase  to  the  shops, 
and  found  the  effect  as  familiar  as  it  was  charming;  but 
she  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Very  nice  little  lady,  that,"  said  Mr.  Gander  Duval, 
Adam's  instructor,  as  he  noted  his  pupil's  eye  following 
his  predecessor's  heels.  But  to  Adam's  query  if  he  knew 
who  the  nice  little  lady  was,  he  stiffened,  as  reproving  an 
indiscretion.  "We  never  know  who  anybody's  name  is." 
He  added  cryptically:  "Wastes  petrol,"  then  surrendered 
the  wheel  and  banged  to  the  door  of  the  car.  "Will  you 
kindly  reverse  out  of  the  yard?" 

Airily  Adam  opened  with  his  right  toe  his  throttle,  and 
his  flywheel  revolving  with  what  he  deemed  adequate 
power,  his  left  hand  slipped  his  lever  into  the  rear  notch 
engaging  the  Overland's  gear.  So  far  so  good;  the  car 
lurched  backwards  towards  the  gate  and  was  almost 
through  it  when  there  was  a  nasty  scraping  sound  and,  to 
Adam's  ears,  the  yet  nastier  sound  of  ladylike  laughter. 
He  had  allowed  his  off  fore-wing  to  draggle  against  the 
gate,  from  which  it  seemed  unwilling  to  part  company. 
In  the  effort  to  save  it  by  a  rapid  change  to  first  gear  he 
called  from  the  machinery  beneath  his  feet  a  protestant 

238 


AT  THE  GARAGE  1239 

groan.  .  .  .  And  he  blushed  to  find  that  his  engine  had 
stopped. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  this  morning?"  Mr.  Duval 
inquired  with  amiability  on  his  lips,  but  contempt  in  his 
eye,  as  he  heaved  his  ponderous  body  to  the  ground  and 
with  a  massy  swoop  on  the  starting  handle  cranked  the 
engine  back  to  life. 

"What,  indeed,"  said  Adam  humbly,  and,  waking  up  to 
his  work,  drove  the  car  forward  a  few  feet  to  straighten 
her  up,  and  then  with  a  reasonably  well-timed  de-clutch 
and  re-engagement  in  reverse,  drove  her  backward  into  the 
street  with  even  clearance  on  both  sides  of  his  wheels. 

Mr.  Duval  grunted  moderate  approval,  and  after  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  of  zig-zag  exercise  in  the  neighboring  alleys, 
bade  him  steer  into  Victoria  Street  for  a  brisk  run  round 
before  re-entering  the  yard.  Passing  St.  Ermins,  Adam 
saw  a  clear  line  ahead  of  him,  and  opened  his  engine  out 
to  nearly  twenty  miles  an  hour. 

"Easy,  easy,"  cried  Mr.  Duval;  "you're  wasting  petrol 
and  breaking  regulations  too.  Ease  off  there  with  that 
foot  of  yours."  As  the  pace  dropped  to  that  of  the  traffic 
they  were  overtaking,  and  they  rolled  on  into  Parliament 
Square,  he  volunteered  the  information:  "Damned  if  that 
little  lady  you  saw  didn't  get  the  old  bus  up  to  twenty-five 
in  Whitehall  this  morning,  and  near  got  me  into  trouble 
with  the  police,  .  .  .  She's  Irish,  you  know,  and  they're 
all  like  that;  they  keep  gabbing  away  at  you,  and  all  the 
time  they're  doing  what  they  shouldn't;  though,  mind  you, 
it  was  sharp  of  her  to  get  the  bus  up  to  twenty-five  with- 
out the  accelerator  roaring  at  me." 

"What  did  she  gabble  about?"  Adam  asked. 

"Ask  me  another  one,"  Mr.  Duval  protested.  "Does 
any  one  ever  know  what  the  Irish  gabble  about?  .  .  .  Not, 
mind  you,  that  they  ain't  witty,  and  all  that;  but  what's 
it  all  about?  I  ask  myself.  Anything  that  matters?  I 


240  IN  LONDON 

don't  think.  .  .  .  But  she  is  a  nice  little  lady,  I  will  say 
that."  He  added  thoughtfully:  "A  man  might  do  worse 
than  be  the  'usband  of  a  little  lady  like  that,"  and  still  more 
thoughtfully:  "From  Saturday  to  Monday." 

Adam  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  accel- 
erating up  the  slope  past  King  Charles's  statue.  "Are 
you  married?"  he  asked. 

"Not  'arf,"  said  Mr.  Gander  Duval,  and  as  one  who 
deprecates  further  inquiry :  "To  your  left  down  Pall  Mall, 
if  you  please,  and  through  the  Park  'ome." 

Adam  brought  the  Overland  smartly  through  Pall  Mall, 
in  and  out  of  the  toy-brick  castellations  of  the  St.  James's 
Palace  precincts,  and  by  the  now  leafless  Mall  and  war- 
dinged  Buckingham  Palace  Road,  back  to  the  garage, 
where  Mr.  Duval  dismissed  him  with  a  nod  and  wink  com- 
posing together  a  form  of  encomium.  Before  going  home 
to  luncheon  he  climbed  the  iron  staircase,  theoretically  that 
he  might  cleanse  himself  from  the  moil  of  the  car,  actually 
that  he  might  see  if  the  nice  little  lady  were  still  about. 

He  had  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing  her,  and  was  re- 
descending  the  staircase  from  the  top  of  the  building, 
when  the  door  of  one  of  the  lecture  rooms  on  the  first 
floor  opening,  twenty  minutes  later  than  class  usually  ended, 
poured  forth  a  bevy  of  damsels,  foremost  among  whom 
was  Mr.  Duval's  charmer.  But  again,  from  his  position 
above  her  head,  Adam  could  not  distinguish  her  features; 
yet  he  had  no  doubt  whatever  that  it  was  she  with  her 
extraordinary  familiar  allure.  .  .  .  She  was  Irish,  Mr. 
Duval  had  said.  .  .  .  Could  she  possibly  be  Woodbine 
Blake?  But  Woodbine  Blake  was  already  a  skilled  driver, 
or  she  had  not  been  allowed  to  tool  that  ambulance  in  the 
streets  of  London.  Besides,  this  young  woman  was  too 
free  of  movement  for  Miss  Blake,  who,  as  he  knew  her, 
affected  the  calculated  and  somewhat  mincing  paces  of  the 
theater. 


AT  THE  GARAGE  i4i 

He  was  still  pondering  this  question  when  he  reached 
Norfolk  Square,  where  Miss  Durward,  all  urbanity,  was 
waiting  lunch  for  him,  and  tactfully  bore  with  his  dis- 
tracted silence.  .  .  .  Still  pondering  it  when  he  returned 
to  the  garage  at  three  for  the  afternoon  lecture  on  the  un- 
natural vices  of  carbureters.  .  .  .  Still  pondering  it  when, 
an  hour  later,  he  passed  on  into  the  shops,  where  his  self- 
chosen  task  was  the  disintegration  of  the  cylinders  of  a 
sleeve- valved  Knight-Daimler.  This  was  a  job  requiring 
at  least  two  persons,  and  he  had  got  into  his  overalls  and 
was  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  lady  who  should  be  ap- 
pointed him  as  mate,  when  a  familiar  voice  penetrated  his 
ears  from  behind.  .  .  .  Some  one  from  Dublin?  .  .  . 
Who?  .  .  .  The  tone  was  strident  and  unattractive,  but  it 
roused  poignant  memories. 

Still  appearing  to  stare  with  professional  acumen  into 
the  sumph  of  the  Knight-Daimler,  Adam  swiveled  his  head 
just  enough  to  catch  sight,  by  a  sheep's  glance,  of  a  lean 
face  towering  some  inches  above  the  tallest  of  a  group  of 
pupils,  and  talking  down  to  a  golden  head  engulfed  below. 
"Well,  it's  damn  mean  of  you,  that's  all  I  can  say,  and 
if  we're  not  going  to  work  together  you  can  go  to  hell 
for  all  I  care."  .  .  .  Adam  could  not  hear  the  answer  of 
the  unseen  interlocutrix;  but  it  was  short,  for  the  lean 
figure  quickly  spat  out:  "You  can  go  to  hell,  I  say,  you 
can  go  to  hell!  I'm  done  with  this" — here  followed  an 
adjective  made  fashionable  by  the  war  as  a  term  of  dispraise 
— "place.  You  don't  catch  me  here  again."  The  figure 
disappeared  rending  its  overall. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Adam  crepitated  at  the  apparition 
and  sighed  with  relief  when  it  vanished;  for  this  was  no 
other  than  Miss  Macfie,  who  not  so  very  long  ago,  indeed 
upon  that  day  he  left  Dublin  as  he  had  intended  for  ever, 
had  assaulted  first  his  heart  and  then  his  head.  Even  the 
starkest  soul  might  quake  in  her  presence.  Never  could 


242  IN  LONDON 

Mr.  Gander  Duval  have  appraised  her  as  a  nice  little  lady 
or  companionable  from  Saturday  even  unto  Monday: 
stouter  fellows  than  stout  Mr.  Duval  would  have  stolen 
forth  to  matins  on  the  Sunday.  Never  could  Adam's  eyes 
have  followed  her  heels  or  eke  her  hat  with  desire.  .  .  . 
But  who,  he  asked  himself,  was  that  other  one,  hidden  in 
the  crowd,  with  whom  she  had  quarreled?  .  .  .  Could  it 
be?  ...  His  pulses  throbbed  at  the  thought. 

They  throbbed  faster  as  there  emerged  from  the  buzz 
of  talk  the  voice  of  the  instructor:  "Mr.  Quinn,  here's  a 
new  mate  to  work  with  you  on  that  chassis." 

And  behold !  all  green  and  gold  as  he  had  known  her  of 
yore,  for  her  overall  was  of  the  familiar  shade,  and  her 
hair,  bobbed  once  again,  retained  its  brilliancy,  stood  Bar- 
bara Burns:  so  lithe  and  blithe  and  youthful,  that  he  could 
not  think  of  her  as  the  wife  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B., 
or  of  any  man.  Nor  did  she  seem  to  wish  to  be  so  thought 
of;  for  on  her  deft  hands,  bared  for  work,  there  was  no 
ring  save  one  simple  filament,  which  Adam  knew  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  given  her  as  a  toy  from  a  Christmas  tree, 
long  ago,  when  she  was  still  a  child  .  .  .  and  Adam  him- 
self, a  ragged  little  boy  selling  newspapers  in  Sackville 
Street,  with  never  a  hope  of  entering  her  world. 

These  things  huddled  confusedly  through  his  mind  as 
their  .yes  met;  but  Barbara  faced  him  with  an  unflinching 
glance  and  a  mere  nod  of  recognition.  "So  you're  to  be 
my  mate,"  she  opened  curtly.  "Well,  carry  on,  and  let's 
see  what  I  can  learn  from  you." 

But  Adam  knew  from  the  tone  of  her  voice  that  he 
could  teach  her  nothing,  and  that  even  the  vapors  of  a 
sleeve-valved  Knight-Daimler  were  more  comprehensible 
to  her  than  to  him.  .  .  .  Always  excepting,  of  course,  in 
theory.  She  seemed  to  have  even  greater  physical  power 
as  they  lifted  the  cylinder  block  from  its  place;  and  he 


AT  THE  GARAGE  243 

cursed  the  feebleness  of  his  right  arm,  making  him  palpably 
contemptible  in  her  eyes. 

As  they  paused  to  draw  breath  after  laying  the  ponder- 
ous block  on  the  floor,  she  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "Did  I 
hear  him  call  you  Quinn?" 

"Yes,"  Adam  returned  in  the  same  tone,  and  braced 
himself  to  explain  why  he  had  taken  the  name  of  her 
mother's  father.  But  Barbara  did  not  deign  to  show 
further  interest  in  the  matter.  Her  next  question  was 
about  the  working  of  the  machine  in  front  of  them,  and, 
although  he  knew  the  answer,  he  failed  to  give  it  to  her 
until  she  had  forgotten  the  question.  A  long  silence  fell, 
broken  only  by  inevitable  grunts  and  monosyllables.  .  .  . 
He  felt  a  wild  desire  to  tell  her  that  Mr.  Gander  Duval 
said  she  gabbled.  .  .  .  But  it  would  have  been  easier  to 
precipitate  himself  from  the  iron  staircase. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 
BARBARA 

WHEN  Barbara  did  at  last  condescend  to  speak,  her  gambit 
was  a  crushing  one.  "What  are  you  doing  in  London? 
Some  one  told  me  you  had  been  killed  at  the  Dardanelles." 

Adam  meekly  pointed  out  that  the  Dardanelles  expedi- 
tion had  been  abandoned  before  he  left  Dublin.  She  went 
on:  "Oh,  Salonika,  then,  or  Syria,  or  Mespot.,  or  some 
old  place.  ...  I  suppose  I'm  thinking  of  Calvinia's  young 
man;  he  was  killed  somewhere  there." 

Adam  faintly  smiled.  "Calvinia's  young  man?  Miss 
Macfie's,  is  it?  I  didn't  know  she  had  a  young  man." 

"He's  dead  and  can't  deny  it,"  Barbara  snapped.  "And 
are  you  sure  you're  not  one  of  her  young  men  yourself?" 

To  this  Adam  answered  with  a  blush;  but  as  he  was 
already  flushed  from  struggling  with  the  engine,  he  hoped 
his  mate  might  not  notice  it.  Whether  she  did  or  did  not, 
the  conversation  again  dropped  into  desultory  exchanges 
more  or  less  appropriate  to  the  work  in  hand,  until  Bar- 
bara, abruptly  throwing  down  her  spanner,  declared  that 
she  had  had  enough  for  the  day. 

"Are  you  going  home?"  Adam  asked,  somewhat  per- 
turbed, for  they  were  surrounded  by  particles  of  Knight- 
Daimler. 

"Not  necessarily  home,"  his  mate  answered,  "but  I  can't 
stand  any  more  of  this  beastly  engine." 

Adam  looked  at  her  pitifully.  "Don't  you  find  it  in- 
teresting?" he  pleaded. 

Barbara  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "At  first  it  wasn't 
bad,"  she  answered;  "but  I'm  fed  up  now." 

"That's  a  pity,"  Adam  said. 

244 


BARBARA  245 

Her  eyes  fired  with  challenge.  "How  do  you  mean  it's 
a  pity?" 

Adam  despondently  said:  "Well,  now  that  you  have 
got  it  all  to  pieces,  the  real  job  is  to  put  it  together  again." 

"I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  said  Barbara.  "Why  can't 
somebody  else  do  that  to-morrow?" 

"I  suppose  they  could,"  Adam  answered ;  "but  it's  the 
rule  that  we  do  it  ourselves." 

"Blow  the  rule !"  cried  Barbara ;  "I'm  fed  up,  I  tell  you. 
If  you  like  to  put  it  together,  you  may.  I'm  going  home." 

"Oh,  you  are  going  home,"  was  all  that  Adam  answered, 
and  with  an  air  of  martyred  innocence  proceeded  to  estab- 
lish some  sort  of  order  among  the  remains  of  the  Knight- 
Daimler. 

Barbara  looked  at  him,  fingering  her  overall.  "Sooner 
or  later  I  am  going  home,"  she  said,  "and  pretty  soon 
you'll  have  to  be  going  home  too."  Having  allowed  the 
words  to  work  in,  she  added:  "Supposing  you  come  now?" 

Adam  cast  a  despairing  glance  at  the  particles  of  Knight- 
Daimler.  "All  right,  ...  if  you'll  wait  for  me  below," 
he  blurted ;  and,  with  a  nod,  she  was  gone.  .  .  .  His  wrist- 
watch  told  him  it  was  half-past  five.  He  ought  to  have 
worked  on  till  six ;  then,  after  a  hasty  ablution,  have  hur- 
ried to  Queen  Anne's  Gate  and  past  the  Government  sheds 
in  St.  James's  Park,  up  the  Duke  of  York's  steps  to 
Waterloo  Place  and  the  theater.  There  he  would  take  a 
bath  in  the  new  bathroom  which  the  phenomenal  profits 
of  What  Rot!  had  allowed  Mr.  Onsin  to  build  (at  a  cost 
exceeding  the  yearly  salary  of  a  German  Rear  Admiral, 
as  his  business  manager  confided  to  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Press,  to  lend  interest  to  their  notices  of  the  five-hun- 
dredth performance),  snatch  a  hasty  meal  of  tea  and  dry 
bread  in  his  dressing-room,  and  reach  the  stage  just  in 
time  for  the  curtain  to  ring  up;  as  it  did  now,  because  of 
the  frequent  air-raids,  at  a  quarter  past  seven. 


246  IN  LONDON 

But  this  Monday  night  Adam  was  fated  to  keep  the 
stage  waiting;  for,  to  begin  with,  after  he  had  huddled  the 
component  parts  of  the  Knight-Daimler  higgledy-piggledy 
into  the  crank  case,  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  return  to 
the  chassis,  and  rushed  upstairs  to  rid  himself  of  his  over- 
alls and  such  grime  as  would  yield  to  an  instant's  plunge 
of  head  and  hands  in  boiling  water,  he  flung  down  the  stair- 
case to  the  yard  to  await  for  twenty  minutes  the  reappear- 
ance of  his  mate. 

He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  that  she  had  wantonly 
given  him  the  slip,  when  at  last  she  appeared,  leisurely 
descending,  as  though  nothing  mattered  less  than  her  tryst 
with  him.  So  slow  was  she  that,  in  the  murk  of  night, 
he  was  not  sure  of  her  until  she  came  under  the  glow  of 
the  shaded  lamp  at  the  bottom.  She  made  no  apology  for 
delaying  him,  said  indeed  no  word,  good  or  bad,  until  they 
were  out  of  earshot  of  any  one  in  the  garage,  and  thread- 
ing a  difficult  path  through  a  narrow  and  atramentous 
passage  into  Victoria  Street.  He  wondered  if  she  would 
never  speak,  and  wondered  still  more  when  she  did;  for 
she  asked:  "Why  did  you  call  yourself  Quinn?" 

"Mr.  Macarthy  suggested  it,"  said  Adam,  "when  I  went 
on  the  stage." 

"Oh!  so  you're  on  the  stage,"  said  Barbara. 

"Yes,"  said  Adam,  and  added  timidly:  "Did  nobody 
tell  you?" 

"I  dare  say  they  did,"  she  answered  carelessly,  "but  my 
life  the  last  year  or  two  has  been  too  terrible  for  me  to 
be  impressed  by  gossip." 

Adam's  tenderness  was  wakened.  "Have  you  really  had 
a  bad  time?"  he  asked. 

"Terrible,"  said  Barbara,  "really  terrible.  No  one  will 
ever  know  what  I  suffered." 

Adam's  voice  was  full  of  sensibility  as  he  pleaded  to 
know  the  worst. 


BARBARA  247 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Barbara.  .  .  .  "Nothing 
that  I  could  tell  you.  ...  It  would  be  quite  impossible  for 
you  to  understand  what  I  have  suffered." 

"You  did  wrong  to  marry  him,"  said  Adam  bitterly. 

"He  was  not  my  own  choice,"  Barbara  seemed  to  argue; 
"beggars  can't  be  choosers.  ...  I'd  have  married  the 
Kaiser  to  get  away  from  my  mother." 

"Would  you  really,"  said  Adam  sympathetically,  "would 
you  really?"  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  then  Im- 
perial Majesty  would  not  have  jumped  at  the  chance, 
deeming  his  crown  well  lost  for  the  sake  of  Barbara,  even 
a  Barbara  with  no  more  love  to  give  him  than  she  had 
bestowed  upon  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar. 

Forgetful  of  the  theater  and  all  else,  he  felt  his  arms 
going  out  to  fold  her  to  him  protectively  against  bad  men 
like  her  husband.  .  .  .  Not  that  he  had  ever  thought  of 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  as  being  her  husband  in  any  sense 
flattering  to  that  official.  Mr.  Macarthy  had  propounded 
the  view  that  it  was  possible  for  Barbara  to  be  in  love 
with  him;  but  Adam  had  consistently  rejected  the  propo- 
sition, and  here  she  was  now  confirming  his  view.  .  .  . 
Yet  he  dared  not  touch  her,  lest  he  too  should  find  himself 
in  the  same  boat  with  his  elderly  rival.  .  .  .  Then,  incred- 
ible joy,  she  touched  him.  "I  find  it  impossible  to  see 
where  I'm  going,"  she  cried,  in  sudden  dismay,  "you'd 
better  take  care  of  me,"  and  thrust  an  arm  through  his. 

"If  I  may,"  he  answered,  "if  I  may."  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  heart  accelerated  like  the  engine  of  the  Over- 
land when  he  opened  her  out  for  top  speed.  In  her  com- 
pany, pressed  side  by  side  in  the  blackness,  with  no  light 
anywhere  but  a  blob  of  reflected  search-light  like  a  dif- 
fused and  nebulous  moon  overhead,  he  felt  an  exhilaration 
that  so  far  he  had  known  only  in  dreams.  For  with  Car- 
oline Brady,  even  in  the  short  hour  of  consummation,  his 
passion  had  always  been  damped  by  the  certainty  that  her 


248  IN  LONDON 

world  was  not  his;  but  Barbara's  flesh  and  his  were  grass 
of  one  field,  clay  of  one  mold.  And  he  felt  that  in  taking 
his  arm  she  had  made  acknowledgment  of  this  and  their 
common  descent  from  that  incorrigible  romantic,  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn. 

It  really  seemed  that  some  such  thought  must  have 
worked  simultaneously  in  her  own  mind;  for  she  said  a 
moment  later:  "I  never  can  think  of  my  mother  as  David 
Byron-Quinn's  daughter." 

"No  more  do  I,"  Adam  agreed,  "though  of  course  she 
has  qualities  she  may  have  got  from  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  "she  has  no  end  of  pluck,  and  she 
has  good  looks;  ...  at  least  she's  generally  considered 
good-looking."  She  paused,  as  it  were,  expectantly. 

"Jolly  good-looking,"  Adam  agreed;  "I  remember  still 
how  lovely  I  thought  her  when  I  saw  her  first  as  a  boy." 

"And  that's  not  so  very  long  ago,  is  it?"  Barbara  sug- 
gested. 

"It  seems  an  awfully  long  time  to  me,"  said  Adam ;  "but 
then,  of  course,  my  life  is  changed  in  every  way  since 
then." 

"So  has  mine,"  Barbara  declared,  with  a  fresh  call  to  his 
sympathy,  which  he  showed  by  a  silent  pressure  of  the 
arm.  And  to  this  he  was  thrilled  to  imagine  that  she  re- 
sponded with  a  pressure  on  her  part.  By  the  time  they 
reached  Victoria  Street  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  so  far 
as  Adam  was  concerned,  was  dead,  buried  and  forgotten; 
and  his  wife  (whether  in  name  only  or  not)  avoided  any 
word  or  action  that  might  have  weakened  this  impression. 

Between  the  obfuscation  of  the  Pimlico  alleys  and  the 
blinding  flashes  of  his  relighted  passion  for  Barbara,  Adam 
hardly  knew  where  he  was  when  they  suddenly  struck  the 
main  thoroughfare  at  a  point  other  than  that  he  would 
have  reached  had  he  been  alone.  His  companion  was 
quicker  than  he:  "We're  close  to  the  Brighton  and  South 


BARBARA  249 

Coast  station,"  she  said;  "let's  go  into  the  tea  room  and 
see  what  we  can  get  to  eat.  It  will  be  warmer  and  easier 
to  talk  there  than  in  the  street." 

Adam  looked  round  still  hazily.  "How  do  you  know 
where  we  are?" 

She  pointed  to  the  clock  that  stood  as  terminus  at  the 
railroad  in  Middlesex  of  the  Surrey  side  trams.  "There's 
Vauxhall  Bridge  Road." 

The  thread  of  Adam's  ideas  snapped;  for  he  saw  that 
it  was  nearly  seven.  Pulling  up  short,  he  ejaculated:  "I 
must  go,  .  .  .  the  theater,  .  .  .  you  understand." 

"Oh,  bother  the  theater  1"  she  cried,  "just  when  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you.  .  .  .  What  theater  is  it?  .  .  .  Where? 
..."  Her  voice  and  whole  manner  were  contemptuous. 
But  when  he  said  it  was  the  Grand,  he  suspected  that  she 
was  impressed,  though  she  affected  not  to  be.  She  vouch- 
safed to  say:  "Well,  that's  not  far.  What  time  must  you 
be  there?" 

"I  should  have  been  there  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  an- 
swered; "I'm  due  to  speak  my  first  line  in  twenty  min- 
utes." 

Barbara  woke  up,  and  with  an  imperious  wave  of  her 
hand  stopped  an  empty  taxi  making  for  the  station.  "Jump 
in,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  drop  you."  As  Adam  obeyed,  she 
called  to  the  driver:  "Grand  Theater,  stage  door,  like 
billyoh  I" 

"Right,  lady,"  grinned  the  man,  and,  whisking  about  into 
Buckingham  Palace  Road,  stimulated  his  Napier  to  illus- 
trate his  conception  of  the  term  "billyoh."  In  a  moment 
they  were  skurrying  through  St.  James's  Park  at  twice  the 
pace  Adam  had  been  pleased  to  attain  in  the  Overland  that 
afternoon. 

As  the  driver  crowned  his  achievement  by  dodging 
through  one  of  the  bottle-necks  into  St.  James's  Square, 
by  fifteen  seconds  the  shortest  way  to  the  Grand  stage 


250  IN  LONDON 

door,  Adam  thrust  his  fingers  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  to 
grasp  half  a  crown ;  but  Barbara  showed  him  that  very  coin 
already  between  ringer  and  thumb,  and  said:  "This  is  my 
taxi,  I  took  it."  And  so  great  was  her  ascendancy  over 
him  that  he  ingloriously  fled  into  the  theater,  leaving  her 
to  have  her  way.  He  was  in  his  dressing-room  before  he 
realized  that  he  had  not  even  said  good-by  to  her;  but  a 
glimpse  of  his  dirty  face  in  the  glass,  and  the  call-boy's 
warning  of  but  ten  minutes  to  go,  dismissed  the  thought 
even  of  Barbara  from  his  mind. 

As  it  was,  he  was  severely  rated  by  the  stage-manager 
for  holding  down  the  curtain  five  precious  minutes;  and, 
injudiciously  retorting  that  Miss  Bellingham  often  kept  it 
down  ten,  was  warned  that  he  was  in  danger  of  for- 
getting which  side  his  bread  was  buttered.  This  so  en- 
raged him,  that  his  mind  was  occupied  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  in  deliberating  whether  it  would  or  would  not  be 
judicious  of  him  to  lay  his  cane  across  the  stage-manager's 
back;  he  was  confident  of  his  ability  to  do  this,  if  in  doubt 
as  to  the  sequel. 

Action  was  yet  in  abeyance  when,  as  he  was  leaving  the 
theater,  the  no  longer  haughty  doorkeeper  proffered  him 
knowingly  a  lady's  visiting  card.  "For  you,  sir,  I  think." 

Adam  read  on  it  in  copperplate  the  words:  "Miss  Bar- 
bara Burns,  Abbey  Theater,"  and  in  writing:  "Have  been 
in  front;  see  you  to-morrow.  Tell  Mr.  Onsin  I  thought 
him  simply  splendid.  B." 

As  Adam  stood  looking  at  this,  half  pleased  and  half 
annoyed,  he  was  conscious  of  the  doorkeeper  whispering 
at  him  with  malty  breath  behind  an  oniony  hand:  "If  you 
take  my  tip,  sir,  you'll  pin  that  up  prominent  in  your 
dressing-room." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 
DEUTSCHLAND  UEBER  MISS  DURWARD 

MIDNIGHT  following  Adam's  rediscovery  of  Barbara  saw 
him  slipping  between  the  sheets  at  Norfolk  Square,  hating 
and  loving  her.  Surely  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  so 
beautiful  as  she:  so  poised;  so  proud;  so  insolently  silly. 
For  Adam  was  not  so  modest  that  he  could  regard  her 
praise  of  Mr.  Onsin's  performance  and  indifference  to  his 
own  otherwise  than  as  a  premeditated  snub.  That  mes- 
sage was  meant  to  say:  "You  may  think  you  matter,  but 
you  don't.  You  may  suppose  that  I  am  interested  in  you, 
but  I  am  not."  .  .  .  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  merely 
wanted  to  snub  him,  why  trouble  to  leave  a  card  upon  him 
at  all?  He  was  still  too  ignorant  of  life,  too  ingenuous  in 
intrigue,  to  see  what  to  Miss  Macfie  would  have  been  the 
obvious  meaning  of  the  matter.  He  saw  only  that  Barbara 
was  hard  of  heart,  and  as  he  tossed  from  side  to  side  in 
bed  he  imagined  himself  alternatively  melting  or  breaking 
it:  his  temperament  was  for  melting  it,  but  his  mood  for 
breaking.  Then  his  mind  wandered  to  the  letter  he  ought 
to  have  written  Major  Macfadden  Smith  about  his  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple.  He  certainly  would  take  them  if  he 
could,  if  only  that  he  might  have  some  quiet  place  where 
he  could  talk  to  Barbara  without  interruption.  His  prac- 
tical side  was  trying  to  calculate  how  much  it  would  be 
worth  his  while  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  uninterrupted 
conversation  with  Barbara,  when  he  fell  asleep  and  to 
dream  that  Barbara  and  he  were  in  the  center  plot  of 
Norfolk  Square  (or  was  it  Mountjoy  Square?)  and  all  the 
airmen  of  Germany  dropping  bombs  around  them.  They 

25* 


252  IN  LONDON 

dropped  them  so  close  that  Adam  woke  with  a  start,  think- 
ing himself  hit,  to  find  that  an  air-raid  actually  was  in 
progress,  and  that  presumably  a  bomb  had  caused  the  house 
so  to  vibrate  that  one  of  Mr.  Bourchier-Bellingham's  il- 
lustrations of  French  manners  had  leaped  off  the  wall  on  to 
his  nose.  ...  In  an  instant  he  was  out  of  bed  and  on  his 
knees  (for  the  first  time  in  that  room)  praying  that,  what- 
ever happened,  Barbara  might  be  safe.  And  so  he  re- 
mained spiritually  on  guard  until  the  firing  died  away,  and 
he  crept  back  into  bed  very  cold. 

He  woke  with  a  sneeze,  and  discovered  the  too  knowing 
Tomasso  standing  over  him  with  the  French  picture  be- 
tween his  fingers  and  a  delightful  grin  upon  his  countenance. 
Adam  snatched  it  from  his  hand,  and  Tomasso's  military 
instinct  warning  him  in  the  very  nick  of  his  danger,  he 
fled.  The  picture  crashed  on  the  door  as  he  closed  it  be- 
hind him. 

Then  Adam  sneezed  again,  and  after  his  bath  he  coughed. 
His  nose  was  red,  and  he  held  his  handkerchief  to  it  during 
a  great  part  of  breakfast.  His  hostess  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  he  had  a  cold,  and  hinted  that  he  must  have  caught 
it  on  Sunday  night  or  in  the  small  hours  of  Monday  morn- 
ing. But  Adam  answered  not;  for  he  had  found  on  his 
plate  the  first  letter  he  ever  received  from  the  zone  of  the 
armies.  The  address  was :  A.P.O.S.8,  B.E.F.,  and  the  sig- 
nature: Alaric  Macfadden  Smith,  Major. 

It  ran:  "DEAR  QUINN, — If  you  have  not  forgotten  me 
and  a  certain  little  dinner  we  enjoyed  together  not  so  long 
ago,  perhaps  you  may  remember  I  spoke  to  you  of  certain 
chambers  (more  or  less  my  own),  which  I  offered  you  the 
use  of  for  some  time  to  come,  until  the  military  situation 
becomes  more  favorable,  at  your  own  figure,  and  which  I 
think  I  am  right  in  saying  I  gave  you  the  outer  door  key 
of.  Perhaps  if  you  have  time  you  would  go  and  see  them 
and  write  and  tell  me  if  they  are  of  any  use  to  you,  and 


DEUTSCHLAND  UEBER  MISS  DURWARD      253 

if  you  happen  to  find  by  any  chance  (I  don't  say  there  is) 
a  letter  there  addressed  to  me,  particularly  if  in  a  lady's 
handwriting,  you  might  be  so  good  as  to  send  it  on  in  a 
fresh  envelope.  But  it  isn't  of  any  consequence  if  you're 
at  all  busy,  as  I'm  sure  you  must  be  with  so  many  matinees. 
You  understand,  don't  you,  that  I  shall  be  delighted  for 
you  to  have  the  rooms  at  your  own  terms,  for  sentimental 
reasons,  as  I  need  not  repeat.  I  may  say,  should  you  have 
any  doubt,  that  the  lady  whose  letter,  or  perhaps  letters, 
I  am  asking  you  to  send  on,  should  there  be  any,  is  not 
the  lady  whose  name  I  mentioned  in  connection  with  a 
certain  room  containing  a  bath.  I  hope  you  will  find  the 
geyser  in  working  order.  If  there  is  anything  unsatisfac- 
tory, have  it  made  good  at  my  expense  and  deduct  from 
rent,  if  any.  I  hope  to  see  you  again,  but  am  glad  you 
are  not  here.  Shall  be  pleased  at  any  time  to  give  you  any 
sort  of  certificate  that  you  care  to  have.  It  would  be  a 
real  pleasure  to  my  brother's  friend.  The  men  are  simply 
splendid,  though  fed  up,  as  is  yours.  .  .  ." 

As  Adam  read,  he  felt  for  a  moment  that  the  gods  were 
on  his  side;  but  there  was  a  postscript  which  dashed  his 
cheerfulness :  "I  ought  to  warn  you  that  the  chambers  are 
considered  dangerous  in  air-raids,  being  so  near  the  river 
and  high  up,  as  well  as  combustible  and  impossible  to 
escape  from.  You  might  perhaps  use  them  in  the  daytime, 
sleeping  at  night  in  some  safe  place  like  Leighton  Buzzard. 
I  could  arrange  for  you  to  do  this  with  a  patient  of  mine, 
if  desired.  She  would  be  glad  of  a  youthful  companion 
(P.G.  or  otherwise),  but  perhaps  you  might  find  her  too 
religious.  I  mention  this  in  confidence." 

Adam  might  have  been  amused  at  the  notion  of  fleeing 
from  the  bomb-throwers  into  what  he  supposed  to  be  the 
wilds  of  Buckinghamshire;  but  suddenly  he  saw  himself 
prostrate  on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom,  praying  for  the  body 
of  Barbara  as  once  he  had  prayed  for  the  soul  of  Caro- 


254  IN  LONDON 

line  Brady.  He  read  in  Miss  Durward's  affably  matter- 
of-fact  eyes  that  not  in  a  hundred  years  would  she  guess 
how  he  had  caught  cold:  "Do  you  know  where  that  bomb 
dropped  last  night?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Durward  shuddered,  and  shook  her  head:  "Don't 
talk  of  it,"  she  protested;  "they'll  get  us  one  of  these  days 
when  we're  least  expecting  it.  Don't  let  us  think  of  it. 
No,  not  even  talk  about  it;  I  shouldn't."  After  a  pause, 
indicating  that  she  considered  the  subject  as  closed,  she 
went  on :  "There  were  three  glasses  cracked  in  the  kitchen 
this  morning,  and  Tomasso  says  there  must  have  been 
more  than  one  bomb.  Fortunately  I  was  asleep,  and  didn't 
wake  up  until  that  wretched  boy  scout,  young  Higgin- 
botham,  startled  me  blowing  the  'All-clear'  very  loud  on 
purpose,  because  I  wouldn't  register  with  his  mother  for 
cheese."  .  .  .  Thus,  loosely  as  was  her  wont  after  air-raid 
nights,  Miss  Durward  went  on.  But  Adam  was  not  listen- 
ing, until  he  heard  suddenly  her  threat,  if  the  air-raids  con- 
tinued, to  show  her  dissatisfaction  with  those  responsible 
for  the  defense  of  the  Metropolis,  by  shaking  its  dust  from 
her  shoes  and  going  to  live  at  Bath.  .  .  .  "So  it  might  be 
as  well,"  she  concluded,  "if  you  were  to  look  about  for 
other  rooms,  in  case  I  have  to  go." 

"That,"  said  Adam,  "is  a  good  idea.  I'll  do  it  now." 
And,  somewhat  to  her  annoyance,  he  sat  down  then  and 
there  at  her  desk  and  wrote  Major  Macfadden  Smith  that 
he  would  like  to  take  the  rooms  in  Plowden  Buildings  for 
at  least  five  weeks,  and  suggested  a  rental  of  two  pounds 
a  week. 

He  felt  a  glow  of  satisfaction  as  he  posted  this  letter, 
covering  the  two  he  had  found  at  Plowden  Buildings,  in 
the  District  Head  Office  in  Spring  Street,  deeming  it  too 
important  a  packet  for  one  of  those  ordinary  receptacles 
which  had  been  pressed  to  the  doubtful  uses  of  the  Self- 
Help  and  other  Ministries.  But  he  remained  uneasy  as  to 


DEUTSCHLAND  UEBER  MISS  DURWARD      255 

what  might  have  befallen  Barbara  in  the  night.  The  morn- 
ing papers  had  gone  to  press  too  early  to  have  any  mention 
of  the  raid;  and  vague  scraps  of  conversation,  caught  in 
the  street  and  on  the  bus  to  Victoria,  told  him  nothing  ex- 
cept that  there  had  been  heavy  damage  as  near  as  Maida 
Vale.  This  might  account  for  Miss  Durward's  cracked 
glasses ;  but  he  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Barbara  lived 
in  that  neighborhood.  .  .  .  Where  did  she  live?  He  had 
no  idea;  nor  had  he  told  her  where  he  lived.  .  .  .  What 
had  they  talked  about  in  those  precious  moments  between 
turning  their  backs  on  the  garage  and  parting  at  the  stage 
door  of  the  Grand?  He  could  not  recall  anything  except 
that  Barbara  seemed  very  sorry  for  herself.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Macarthy  disapproved  of  people  being  sorry  for 
themselves.  Adam  had  a  suspicion  that,  since  Barbara 
married  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  his  guardian  had  ceased  to 
approve  of  her.  But  then  Mr.  Macarthy  perhaps  did  not 
know  what  he  knew  from  his  grandmother:  that  her  mar- 
riage was  what  the  French  call  a  white  marriage,  or  mar- 
riage that  only  seemed  to  be  a  marriage,  and  was  the  op- 
posite of  a  marriage  in  the  sight  of  God,  which  did  not 
seem  to  be  a  marriage  at  all,  though  it  produced  somewhat 
similar  results.  He  himself,  as  he  reflected  in  Park  Lane, 
was  the  result  of  a  union  which  he  had  not  heard  called  a 
marriage  in  the  sight  of  God,  though  presumably  if  all 
things  were  visible  to  Him,  He  must  have  been  a  witness 
to  it  ...  an  unwilling  witness?  Adam  did  not  quite  per- 
ceive how  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  even  with  the  castle  behind 
him,  could  have  forced  his  will  upon  the  Almighty.  So  he 
came  to  the  conclusion,  as  he  walked  in  at  the  garage  gate, 
that  perhaps  at  the  moment  when  Byron  O'Toole  begot  him 
on  the  body  of  Bride  Macfadden,  nee  Smith,  the  two  were 
married  in  the  sight  of  God.  ...  As  individuals  he  could 
feel  no  affection  nor  respect  for  either  of  them;  but,  for 
bringing  him  into  this  world,  despite  all  its  abominations 


256  IN  LONDON 

so  beautiful  and  interesting,  he  thanked  them.  He  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  bore  no  resemblance  to  either,  though 
in  moments  of  depression  he  suspected  that  he  was  much 
like  what  Mr.  O'Toole  might  have  been  had  Lady  Daphne 
Page  not  presented  him  in  infancy  to  her  charwoman.  He 
had  already  seen  enough  of  the  upper  classes  to  surmise 
that  Mr.  Macarthy's  opinion  that  only  the  lack  of  schooling 
and  money  in  his  pocket  prevented  Mr.  O'Toole  cutting  a 
brilliant  figure  in  Irish  society,  and  one  of  some  distinc- 
tion even  in  England,  was  not  pure  sarcasm.  .  .  . 

The  voice  of  the  flapper  clerk  in  the  sentry-box  at  the 
gateway  of  the  garage  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts  with  the 
words:  "Oh,  Mr.  Quinn,  can  Mr.  Duval  see  you  about 
altering  the  time  of  your  drive?" 

Adam  frowned.    "Where  is  Mr.  Duval?"  he  asked. 

"Just  across  the  yard  talking  to  that  lady,"  said  the 
flapper  clerk,  and  Adam's  eyes,  following  her  finger,  beheld 
first  Barbara  and  then  Mr.  Gander  Duval  engaged  in  what 
to  Adam's  scandalized  emotions  appeared  to  be  something 
uncommonly  like  a  flirtation. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 
MR.  DUVAL  ADVISES 

ADAM  stepped  forward  towards  Mr.  Duval  as  if  he  were 
about  to  transfix  with  his  walking-stick,  in  the  manner  laid 
down  in  the  bayonet  exercise,  that  gentleman's  well-covered 
peritoneum.  "You  wish  to  speak  with  me?"  he  demanded. 

The  chauffeur,  completing  at  his  ease  a  laugh  of  consid- 
erable size,  answered  off-hand:  "Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all; 
pray  don't  mention  it." 

"Then  why  .  .  ."  began  Adam  angrily,  to  be  checked  by 
a  wave  from  Mr.  Duval's  enormous  paw,  indicating  Bar- 
bara. 

Turning  upon  her,  she  met  his  indignant  eye  with  a  smile 
almost  as  sphinx-like  as  Mr.  Macarthy's,  and  his  wrath 
was  abashed  to  hear  her  say:  "I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  thought 
it  might  be  more  convenient  for  every  one  if  we  could 
arrange  with  Mr.  Duval  to  take  our  driving  lessons  to- 
gether. Mr.  Duval  tells  me  he  has  no  objection,"  and 
smilingly  she  looked  to  him  for  confirmation. 

Mr.  Duval  did  not  smile.  He  said:  "No  object,  what- 
ever," crisply,  as  though  he  were  well  aware  of  the  number 
of  fishes  in  the  sea. 

"Have  you  any  objection?"  Barbara  asked  Adam,  with 
mock  humility,  and  he  was  too  overjoyed  at  the  idea  to 
resent  the  sarcasm  of  her  tone.  So  it  was  agreed,  although 
it  involved  ringing  up  Miss  Durward  to  apologize  for  his 
not  returning  to  luncheon,  that  Mr.  Duval  should  take  both 
his  young  pupils  out  together.  "It  will  save  petrol,"  Bar- 
bara observed,  as  if  she  could  have  no  other  motive,  and 
to  emphasize  this  she  turned  away  from  Adam  with  an 

257 


258  IN  LONDON 

air  of  indifference,  apparently  not  hearing  his  inquiry  as 
to  how  she  had  been  affected  by  the  air-raid. 

As  she  attended  none  of  the  classes  which  he  attended, 
they  did  not  meet  again  until  it  was  time  for  them  to  take 
their  places  in  the  Overland.  Mr.  Duval  placed  Barbara 
at  the  wheel  and  sat  down  beside  her,  while  he  waved 
Adam  to  a  seat  behind  them.  All  through  that  morning's 
lectures  Adam  had  been  enjoying  in  anticipation  this  hour 
with  Barbara,  and  he  had  gone  without  luncheon  lest  he 
should  be  a  moment  late  for  it.  But  it  opened  dully,  for 
Mr.  Duval  laconically  bade  her  drive  to  a  blind  alley  off 
Caxton  Street,  and  her  whole  lesson  was  spent  crawling  up 
that  alley  backwards,  and  down  it  again  to  crawl  up  it 
once  more.  At  the  first  effort  she  did  this  pretty  well, 
until  it  came  to  the  turn  at  the  top,  when  she  bumped  her 
near  driving  wheel  on  a  neglected  curb  stone;  her  second 
attempt  was  not  so  good,  and  her  third  was  only  better 
than  her  fourth  and  fifth.  The  sixth  effort  went  aground 
within  a  few  feet,  and  instead  of  putting  her  lever  into 
first  gear  to  get  afloat  again,  she  deliberately  accelerated 
her  engine  and  tore  past  the  obstacle,  leaving  many  inches 
of  fractured  wing  behind.  Whereupon  Mr.  Gander  Duval 
remarked  with  Mephistophelean  politeness  that  he  knew  a 
perfect  little  lady  who  had  had  just  about  enough  of  it  for 
to-day;  and  restarting  the  engine,  which  had  stopped  to 
listen  to  what  he  had  to  say,  he  invited  his  fair  pupil 
to  relinquish  her  place  in  favor  of  her  young  friend. 

Barbara  leaped  out  with  an  offended  air,  and  was  ap- 
parently of  a  mind  to  make  for  home  without  a  word  to 
Adam,  when  Mr.  Duval  again  interposed.  "Better  jump 
in  behind,  and  let's  drop  you  where  you  want  to  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  anywhere,"  Barbara  retorted,  eyeing 
him  reproachfully. 

"Looks  bad  for  a  lady  to  go  nowhere  in  a  'uff,"  said 
Mr.  Duval  firmly ;  "better  jump  in  while  there  is  yet  time," 


MR.  DUVAL  ADVISES  259 

and  he  gave  the  door  just  a  ghost  of  a  swing  as  though  to 
indicate  the  possibility  of  its  being  closed  against  Barbara 
for  evermore.  .  .  . 

And  to  Adam's  surprise  the  proud  Barbara  meekly 
obeyed,  though  he  himself  was  on  the  very  point  of  find- 
ing words  wherewith  to  rebuke  Mr.  Duval,  a  mere  English 
or  even  hybrid  chauffeur,  for  his  impertinence  to  an  Irish 
gentlewoman  to  whom  Adam,  if  but  doubtfully  of  kin,  de- 
sired to  be  more  than  kind.  .  .  .  But  he  had  no  time  to 
think  of  this ;  for  it  behooved  him  to  take  the  Overland  out 
of  that  backwater  alley  into  the  full  tide  of  Victoria  Street 
and  Buckingham  Palace  Road. 

"I  want  you  to  show  the  lady  what  you  can  do,"  Mr. 
Duval  exhorted  him,  "and  I  don't  mind  wasting  a  bit  of 
petrol  for  once  by  way  of  swank,  just  to  show  you  can 
do  it.  Go  a-'ead !" 

Adam,  on  his  mettle,  wangled  the  car  with  some  dex- 
terity, as  he  flattered  himself,  through  the  cross-tides  into 
Victoria  Street,  past  the  station  and  with  something  like  a 
rip  round  into  Buckingham  Palace  Road,  going  west  with 
the  speedometer  kicking  at  twenty-five.  He  was  approach- 
ing the  Chelsea  end  somewhat  proud  of  himself,  when  Mr. 
Duval  motioned  him  to  ease  down.  "Slow  down,"  he  said, 
"slow  down,  low  as  you  can  go  without  coming  off  top 
gear;  but  keep  your  toe  ready  on  the  accelerator,  or  you'll 
get  your  engine  stopped.  Now  very  steady  into  Ebury 
Street  and  bring  her  up  to  ten,  and  then  listen  to  me." 
He  threw  his  chin  over  his  shoulder:  "And  you  listen  too, 
young  lady,  for  your  faults  are  the  same  as  'is,  only 
more  so." 

Adam,  oddly  relieved  to  find  that  he  was  not  to  be  made 
a  butt  for  Barbara's  amusement,  soberly  obeyed,  and  in 
Ebury  Street  Mr.  Duval  continued  his  discourse.  "Now 
like  most  young  neophytes,  as  they  call  them,  Mr. — I  for- 
get your  name — you've  a  trick  of  taking  corners  with  your 


260  IN  LONDON 

engine  in  full  buzz,  and  then  when  you're  round  it,  safe  by 
the  dispensation  of  Providence,  getting  scared  and  slowing 
down.  Now  once  for  all  remember  this,  when  you  want 
to  negotiate  a  corner  and  you've  any  speed  on,  you  toot 
your  horn  and  you  de-clutch.  When  you're  round  it  you 
accelerate  and  get  back  into  gear  as  smartly  as  you  can, 
remembering  that  if  you  lose  time,  and  don't  accelerate 
enough,  you  stop  your  engine  sure  as  eggs.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  take  your  corner  at  any  speed  with  your  en- 
gine in  gear,  and  the  road  has  any  camber  to  sj>eak  of,  or 
there's  a  little  grease  about,  as  likely  as  not  ye'll  be  stand- 
ing on  your  head  in  the  kingdom  of  'eaven  when  you're 
least  expecting  it."  Again  his  chin  swung  round  to  the 
back  seat.  "The  remark  about  standing  on  your  'ead  does 
not  apply  to  ladies,"  he  explained;  "but  even  the  most 
perfect  little  lady  will  find  herself  in  Kingdom  Come  the 
wrong  way  up,  if  she  goes  on  taking  corners  in  the  wrong 
way." 

He  turned  to  Adam  again:  "Now  we'll  take  some  cor- 
ners, if  you  please."  And  forthwith  he  set  Adam  waltzing 
the  Overland  round  the  blocks  of  Belgravia,  and  cutting 
figures  of  eight  through  Chelsea  until  it  was  time  to  turn 
homewards.  Adam  lost  all  sense  of  where  he  was,  even 
on  the  return  journey;  for  his  mentor  allowed  him  no 
more  straight  running  than  was  sufficient  to  get  the 
speedometer  within  nodding  distance  of  twenty  before  he 
directed  him  to  left  or  right,  keeping  all  the  while  a  running 
fire  of  general  conversation  with  Barbara,  interlarded  with- 
out change  of  tone  with  words  of  command  and  advice  to 
Adam. 

Thus  ran  on  Mr.  Gander  Duval's  monologue,  as  Adam, 
all  asweat  to  acquit  himself  featly  in  Barbara's  eyes,  wrig- 
gled the  Overland  in  and  out  and  round  about  thorough- 
fares alternately  mean  and  pretentious :  "Yes,  miss,  it  is  a 
strain  on  a  young  lady  that  isn't  used  to  go  pushing  a  bus 


MR.  DUVAL  ADVISES  261 

rumtifoosle,  as  you  might  call  it,  up  and  down  those  blink- 
ing lanes;  but  that's  where  the  real  work  of  a  chauffeur 
comes  in,  not  in  spinning  along  the  Ripley  Road  with  his 
mouth  open  for  a  champagne  lunch.  Left,  if  you  please. 
De-clutch.  .  .  .  Accelerate,  accelerate!  .  .  .  And  the  Over- 
land engine,  when  it  isn't  worn  out,  which  isn't  always,  is 
easy  as  winking  backwards  or  forwards;  but  to  reverse  a 
car  that  wants  handling,  like  a  Wolseley  or  a  Fiat,  up  a 
corkscrew  turn  like  R.A.C.  test  at  St.  James's.  .  .  .  Right, 
if  you  please.  .  .  .  Out  of  gear.  .  .  .  Don't  let  your  revo- 
lutions drop.  .  .  .  Clutch  again.  .  .  .  Accelerate,  accele- 
rate! is  another  pair  of  shoes.  Not  that  there's  anything 
in  it  to  make  a  song  about.  .  .  .  No,  I  wouldn't  drive  for 
the  M.T.  for  any  money.  All  slop  gears.  Ruins  the  hands. 
I'd  rather  go  into  the  trenches,  if  I  had  to  go  at  all;  but, 
thank  God,  I've  got  heart  disease.  Left  again.  Remember 
what  I  said.  Out  you  go.  .  .  .  Keep  her  running.  In 
again.  Accelerate,  accelerate !"  The  corner  of  Adam's  left 
eye  caught  Mr.  Duval's  paw  indexing  some  object  in  the 
strait  street  of  tall  houses,  to  him  a  mere  course  for  gather- 
ing speed,  "That's  what  I  call  'orrid.  The  man  that  lives 
in  that  'ouse,  and  is  a  nobleman,  and  ought  to  know  better, 
goes  and  advertises  his  own  business  outside  his  own  'ouse." 
At  this  point  Adam  was  conscious  that  Barbara's  interest 
was  at  last  fully  roused  by  Mr.  Duval's  conversation;  for 
Mr.  Duval  went  on  with  confidence:  "You  wonder  'ow  I 
mean  he  advertises  his  business.  Well,  if  Mr.  What's-his- 
name  will  just  take  us  round  again  I'll  show  ye.  Left.  .  .  . 
De-clutch,  round  you  go.  There  you  are.  Got  him  again. 
Accelerate,  accelerate!  Left  again  into  the  square  and  left 
again  up  Belgrave  Place.  We'll  just  do  that  little  bit 
again."  The  reference  to  the  square  and  Belgrave  Place 
prepared  Adam  for  what  was  to  follow :  "Yes,  miss,  on  that 
pillar  box  we  passed  you  may  have  read  these  words : 
'  'Uns  go'  Ungry  for  the  sake  of  'Ome.  Britons  arise  and 


262  IN  LONDON 

show  you  can  go  'angrier  still.'  .  .  .  Now  I'm  told  that  the 
nobleman  who  lives  in  that  'ouse  gets  ten  thousand  a  year 
for  inventing  bilge  like  that  and  sticking  it  round  the  town. 
...  I  don't  believe  it,  but  I  haven't  a  doubt  he  gets  more 
for  doing  it  than  it's  worth.  For  it's  worth  nothing  at  all. 
It's  enough  to  make  you  want  to  'oist  the  Red  Flag  to  read 
an  advert,  like  that  in  Eaton  Place.  But  it's  an  interesting 
street  otherwise.  An  Irish  rebel  with  the  queer  name  of 
Arson  lives  at  No.  5,  and  got  a  bomb  in  his  area  not  long 
ago.  And  an  interesting  thing  happened  in  the  nobleman's 
'ouse  too.  You  see  that  middle  window  on  the  first  floor 
— I'm  told  the  police  pushed  a  foreign  countess  through  it 
not  long  ago,  trying  to  handcuff  her  I  suppose  they  were, 
and  she  fell  on  the  very  letter  box  and  was  killed,  so  they 
made  out  she  shot  herself  by  accident.  Rum  story,  but 
everything  doesn't  get  into  the  papers.  Left  again.  .  .  . 
Out.  ...  In.  ...  Straight  ahead.  .  .  .  'Ome.  Accelerate, 
accelerate !" 

As  Barbara  prepared  to  descend  from  the  car  in  the 
yard  she  said  with  condescension :  "Perhaps,  Mr.  Duval, 
it  might  interest  you  to  know  that  the  foreign  countess,  as 
you  call  her,  who  was  killed  in  Eaton  Place,  was  at  one 
time  in  love  with  my  grandfather." 

"Was  that  so,  miss  ?"  Mr.  Duval  readily  responded ;  "then 
if  your  grandmother  was  at  all  like  you,  I  guess  there  were 
wigs  on  the  green." 

Barbara  smiled  scornfully.  "Oh,  I'm  not  jealous,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  of  ladylike  rebuke,  "and  I  don't  suppose 
my  grandmother  was  either." 

"I  suppose  she  wasn't,"  Mr.  Duval  agreed,  "if  she  never 
heard  anything  about  it." 

These  words  were  scarce  spoken  when  Adam,  feeling 
that  he  had  been  too  long  excluded  from  the  conversation, 
inquired  in  his  turn  of  Mr.  Duval:  "I  wonder  if  it  would 
interest  you  to  know  that  the  lady  whom  you  call  a  coun- 


MR.  DUVAL  ADVISES  263 

tess,  but  was  in  reality  of  superior  rank,  in  fact  a  mar- 
chioness .  .  ."  At  this  point  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
draw  breath  and  allow  Mr.  Duval  to  interject  the  qualifi- 
cation: "Foreign." 

"Besides  being  a  marchioness,  foreign  or  otherwise," 
Adam  insisted  with  dignity,  "she  was  before  marriage  an 
earl's  daughter,  and  it  may  interest  you  to  know,  my  grand- 
mother." 

"Before  marriage,"  Mr.  Duval  repeated,  with  an  air  of 
politeness.  He  seemed  puzzled,  but  not  impressed.  .  .  . 
Then  one  of  his  large  paws  descended  on  Adam's  shoulder, 
and  the  other,  to  Adam's  consternation,  on  Barbara's.  And 
he  actually  stood  there,  without  being  blasted,  while,  there 
being  no  one  within  earshot,  he  said  confidentially  though 
not  without  breadth  of  effect:  "I  see  what  you  two  are 
after:  You  want  to  spoof  me  that  you're  cousins.  .  .  . 
Why  trouble?  You  can  do  what  you  like  for  all  I  care. 
It's  all  one  to  me  if  you  were  twins."  And  giving  them  a 
jocose  salute  he  got  into  the  car  again  and,  winking  at 
Adam,  said  for  the  last  time  that  day:  "Accelerate,  accele- 
rate!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 
ADAM  ACCELERATES 

BARBARA  turned  from  Adam  and  ascended  the  garage  stair- 
way without  a  word.  He  followed  her,  the  expression  of 
her  back  convincting  him  of  crime  in  daring  to  claim  kin- 
ship with  her  through  her  grandfather's  mistress.  He 
wanted  to  run  after  her  and  point  out  that  he  had  not  done 
so;  that  it  was  Mr.  Gander  Duval  who  jactitated  a  mar- 
riage of  the  blackest  shade  between  Sir  David  and  the 
Marchesa.  .  .  .  She  disappeared  into  the  seraglio,  ignoring 
him,  and  he  dreaded  that  he  might  see  her  no  more  that 
day. 

Through  the  afternoon's  lecture  he  could  visualize  only 
her  portrait  upon  the  blackboard :  every  diagram  twisted 
itself  into  some  suggestion  of  her  face  or  form;  every 
formula  spelled  in  cipher  her  name;  the  very  words  issu- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  the  lecturer  referred  esoterically  to 
her.  And  through  everything  echoed  the  accents  of  Mr. 
Gander  Duval  chanting:  "Accelerate,  accelerate!" 

Wistfully  as  when  a  schoolboy  at  Belvedere,  Adam 
pined  for  the  class  to  end  that  he  might  flee  to  the  work- 
shops and  learn  his  fate.  He  would  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  long  for  her;  he  would  stare  up  at  the  ceiling  and 
long  for  her;  he  would  gaze  in  the  lecturer's  face  and  long 
for  her.  .  .  .  Just  as,  not  so  many  months  ago,  at  Belve- 
dere he  had  affected  interest  in  this  or  that  when  really 
interested  only  in  Josephine  O'Meagher.  At  the  garage 
Josephine  O'Meagher  had  ceased  to  exist.  She  could  not 
have  breathed  in  that  atmosphere  any  more  than  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi  could  have  driven  a  tank  over  the  body  of  Brother 

264 


ADAM  ACCELERATES  265 ' 

Wolf.  On  the  other  hand,  Caroline  Brady  with  a  few  shil- 
lings' worth  more  of  education,  and  just  the  ghost  of  a 
chance,  might  have  done  well  in  that  glib  company.  But 
Caroline  Brady  was  a  ghost  herself,  and  all  that  Adam  had 
felt  for  her  was  definitely  passed  to  Barbara. 

It  is  easy  for  the  living  to  triumph  over  the  dead,  and  all 
the  easier  when  there  is  no  contrast  of  character  other 
than  arises  from  circumstances.  Even  Adam  was  observ- 
ant enough  to  see  that  Barbara  had  Caroline's  qualities,  en- 
riched by  a  greater  generosity  of  inheritance  and  environ- 
ment; he  did  not  tell  himself  that  she  had  Caroline's  de- 
fects, refined  by  traditions  and  education.  He  saw  only 
(while  he  pretended  to  see  the  principle  governing  the  ad- 
justment of  a  Bosch  magneto)  that  Barbara's  was  of  all 
the  earth's  bodies  the  most  desirable,  and  that  her  men- 
tality, in  the  aspect  shown  to  him,  enhanced  the  provoca- 
tion of  her  physical  charm.  He  would  not  have  called  her, 
as  he  had  called  Josephine,  beautiful  and  good;  she  was 
that  more  alluring  thing  to  young  knighthood — lovely  and 
ruthless :  belle  et  sans  merci. 

He  was  not  sure  that  Barbara  could  love  at  all;  but  he 
dreamt  of  a  power  in  himself  to  win  what  love  she  had. 
If  she  had  loved  any  one  else,  she  could  not  have  married 
Leaper-Carahar.  .  .  .  And  now  he  knew  for  sure  that  she 
had  never  pretended  to  love  him.  All  argumentative  roads 
led  Adam  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  to  be  won  by 
him!  only  there  remained  the  stubborn  fact  that  she  de- 
spised or  affected  to  despise  him.  And  why?  .  .  .  Because 
in  Dublin  he  was  whispered  by  scandal  to  be  no  gentle- 
man. But  in  the  greater  world  of  London  fame  acclaimed 
him  a  gentleman  without  question.  And  in  his  own  bones 
he  felt  himself  a  gentleman:  the  sordid  and  the  black- 
guardedly  had  no  secret  hold  on  him;  his  thrifty  soul 
stopped  short  of  meanness.  For  a  youngster  of  artistic 
temperament  he  was  almost  a  Puritan:  even  his  most  sen- 


266  IN  LONDON 

sual  mood  withered  at  the  adumbration  of  vice.  At  Ra- 
venna he  might  have  been  as  forward  as  Dante,  but  at 
Venice  more  shy  than  Rousseau,  that  bashfulest  of  all  men 
that  ever  got  a  child.  In  fine,  unworthy  as  he  admitted 
himself  to  be  of  the  gorgeous  Barbara  Burns,  this  lady 
Venus  in  a  golden  shawl,  as  the  Playboy  would  have 
called  her,  he  asked  himself  as  a  practical  young  fellow, 
who  was  more  worthy  than  he?  Especially  now  when  all 
the  youth  of  Britain  were  flinging  their  valorous  beauty 
beneath  the  wheels  of  Juggernaut. 

And  although  nineteen,  as  he  would  be  next  April,  was 
young  for  a  man  to  marry  and  settle  down,  he  flattered 
himself  that  few  men  ten  years  his  senior  were  so  well 
circumstanced  in  fortune  as  he.  In  Dublin  a  man  of  thirty 
earning  an  income  of  seven  hundred  a  year  would  be  con- 
sidered a  catch.  .  .  .  He  forgot  that  long  ere  he  was  thirty, 
one  of  the  reasons  contributing  most  solidly  to  his  income 
would  have  disappeared;  unless,  indeed,  the  war  were  still 
going  on  and  he  taking  no  share  in  it.  Rather  did  he  re- 
flect that  Leaper-Carahar,  three  times  his  age,  was  making 
only  one  and  a  half  times  his  income;  so  at  Leaper-Cara- 
har's  age,  he  reckoned  he  should  be  making  nearly  twice 
what  that  gentleman  made  now  and  had  enabled  him  to 
buy  the  priceless  Barbara  in  the  Dublin  slave-market.  He 
was  admitting  to  himself  the  point  that  Barbara  as  a  slave 
would  be  written  off  by  the  Orientalist  as  a  wash-out,  when 
the  class  ended  and  he  was  set  free  to  put  his  valor  to 
the  test. 

That  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  had  any  moral  lien  upon  Bar- 
bara did  not  present  itself  to  him.  For  him  she  was  not 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 's  wife,  not  a  married  woman  at  all, 
but  merely  a  slave,  iniquitously  enslaved,  and  momentarily 
escaped  and  basking  in  the  sunlight  of  freedom.  It  seemed 
to  Adam  that  if  he  took  courage  to  face  her  pursuer  he 
could  free  her  for  aye.  And  Adam  never  doubted  his  cour- 


ADAM  ACCELERATES  267 

age  to  face  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar — his  grandmother  could 
not  have  done  so  more  readily  than  he — but  he  was  less 
certain  of  his  ability  to  face  Barbara. 

What  bravery  he  had  in  relation  to  Barbara  oozed  out 
of  him  as  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  house  and  donned 
his  overalls.  Momentarily,  however,  he  was  enheartened 
by  re-reading  Major  Macfadden  Smith's  letter,  which  hap- 
pened to  drop  from  his  pocket  as  he  changed ;  and,  reflect- 
ing that  he  had  now  or  was  about  to  have  a  spot  of  earth 
he  could  call  his  own,  he  imagined  how  delightful  it  would 
be  if  Barbara  condescended  to  be  interested  in  his  address, 
to  tell  her  he  had  chambers  in  the  Temple.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  imagine  the  possibility  of  her  wanting  to  see 
them.  He  would  invite  her  to  drink  afternoon  tea  with 
him,  bringing,  of  course,  any  one  she  liked  as  chaperon 
...  oh  hell !  Miss  Macfie  ? 

He  went  downstairs  half  laughing  at  his  own  horror  over 
the  thought  of  a  visit  from  this  bereaved  lady,  and  was 
thrilled  to  find  Barbara  petulantly  fiddling  with  the  mortal 
remains  of  the  Knight-Daimler. 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come!"  she  greeted  him  with 
peevish  coquetry.  "What  on  earth  are  you  smiling  at?" 

"Can't  you  guess?"  said  Adam,  boldly  challenging  her 
eyes. 

She  dropped  them  and  pouted.  "I  don't  see  anything  to 
smile  at." 

"But  I  do,"  and  Adam  was  most  emphatic. 

He  was  so  emphatic  that  she  could  not  avoid  to  ques- 
tion: "What  do  you  see?" 

He  paused  to  answer  until  at  long  last  her  eyes  turned 
to  him  inquiringly,  not  to  escape  from  his  until  he  had  said : 
"I  see  my  mate  waiting  for  me." 

She  turned  instantly  with  a  frown,  but  her  cheeks,  he 
was  sure,  were  pinker.  "You  don't  know  what  you're  talk- 
ing about,"  she  said  crushingly,  but  weakened  the  effect  by 


268  IN  LONDON 

adding:  "And  anyhow,  that's  a  crib  from  Stephen  Ma- 
carthy." 

She  weakened  the  effect  so  far  as  her  dignity  was  con- 
cerned; but  the  incomprehensible  phrase  served  to  baffle 
Adam  for  the  time  being,  and  their  further  conversation 
became  mechanical. 

Yet,  although  their  talk  might  be  of  inlet  and  exhaust, 
of  cams  and  piston  rings  and  washers  and  big  ends,  touch- 
ing nothing  nearer  the  loves  of  mortals  than  the  sexual 
differentiation  of  screws,  it  seemed  that  she,  no  more  than 
himself,  was  wholly  concentrated  upon  anatomizing  the 
Knight-Daimler. 

"Calvinia,"  she  mentioned  without  premeditation,  as  it 
seemed  to  Adam,  "Calvinia  makes  out  that  even  screws  are 
male  and  female.  Is  that  true?  ...  I  thought  it  was  just 
her  queer  mind,  until  I  caught  something  about  a  female 
screw  in  Mr.  Baker's  lecture  this  morning." 

Adam  met  her  glance  with  innocent  eyes.  "They  are 
called  male  and  female  in  the  trade,"  he  answered,  and, 
picking  out  a  couple  from  the  lumber  box  beside  him,  he 
passed  them  to  her  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

Presently  he  heard  them  chink  one  after  the  other  into 
the  box,  as  she  tossed  them  back  across  the  chassis.  And 
there  was  an  unwonted  graciousness  in  her  voice  as  she 
said :  "You  really  are  rather  a  sweet  person." 

After  that,  conversation  between  them  ceased  until  she 
said :  "I  must  be  off.  .  .  .  Can  I  help  you  to  put  things  in 
order  first?" 

He  gazed  at  her  surprisedly,  because  of  this  unlocked  for 
condescension,  and  she  seemed  to  give  way  before  him  as 
she  murmured :  "Don't  look  at  me  with  Stephen  Macarthy's 
eyes." 

He  stood  a  moment,  rapt  in  the  recollection  that  Caro- 
line Brady  too  had  in  a  sense  complained  of  the  likeness 
of  his  eyes  to  his  guardian's. 


ADAM  ACCELERATES  269 

From  her  subtle  face  his  eyes  traveled  to  the  broad  face 
of  the  clock  at  the  farther  end  of  the  workshop:  it  agreed 
with  his  wrist-watch  upon  five  and  twenty  minutes  to  six. 
Barbara  made  a  movement  of  perhaps  mock  impatience: 
"You  don't  want  my  help." 

"No,"  Adam  answered  at  his  leisure,  "but  I  want  your 
company.  Sit  down."  With  acted  ease  he  drew  a  bench 
from  the  wall. 

But  Barbara  disdained  the  suggested  motion.  "If  I  stay 
I  may  as  well  help,"  she  said. 

"No,"  Adam  answered  her  again.  "As  soon  as  I've  got 
the  parts  straight  you  might  help  me  to  lift  the  thing  back 
into  its  place,  but  you'll  only  waste  time  muddling  me  over 
bolts  and  nuts." 

"I  don't  muddle,"  Barbara  retorted. 

"You  muddle  me,"  he  insisted,  with  an  urbane  smile  that 
disarmed  her  resentment. 

She  sank  down  on  the  bench  murmuring:  "You  simply 
are  Stephen  to-night." 

"I  wish  I  were,"  he  answered  only. 

Five  minutes  passed  before  she  surrendered  to  her  desire 
to  ask  him  why  he  wished  it. 

"Because  you  would  find  my  company  more  enjoyable," 
he  said ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  well  as  to  her  that  it  was 
a  man  speaking. 

Apart  from  indifferent  things,  she  said  no  more  until 
they  bade  each  other  farewell  in  Victoria  Street,  where  she 
watched  for  a  bus  going  Chelseawards.  She  had  given  him 
an  address  at  Joy  Mansions,  King's  Road,  which  she  de- 
scribed as  a  studio. 

"A  studio?"  Adam  cried.  "Have  you  taken  up  paint- 
ing?" That  seemed  to  him  an  explanation  of  her  being  in 
London. 

"I've  painted  all  my  life,"  she  answered;  "only  I'm  less 
vain  than  some  people  about  showing  my  work." 


270  IN  LONDON 

"I'm  sure,"  Adam  protested,  "it's  awfully  good." 

Barbara  laughed  bitterly:  "Now  you're  not  talking  like 
Mr.  Macarthy,"  and  cut  short  his  answer  with  the  words: 
"Good-night,  I  see  my  bus;"  she  nodded  towards  a  red 
monster  emerging  from  the  slime  of  a  wet  London  night. 

Adam  hugged  her  arm  as  he  led  her  through  the  posse 
of  humanity  struggling  for  an  inside  place.  Barbara  said 
the  outside  would  do  for  her. 

"You'll  catch  cold,"  he  protested,  "and  there's  a  lot  of 
'flu  about." 

"Does  that  matter?"  she  rejoined;  "you  forget  that  I'm 
married  .  .  .  miserably  married." 

In  point  of  fact  he  had  forgotten  it,  and  it  was  a  sicken- 
ing shock  to  be  reminded  of  it  thus.  So  he  let  her  part 
from  him  without  a  word,  and  as  the  red  monster  (which 
he  was  not  in  a  state  to  recognize  as  the  same  No.  Eleven 
which  had  carried  him  to  Fleet  Street  within  forty-eight 
hours  past)  sank  with  her  into  the  mire,  figured  the  Shep- 
herd's Bush  omnibus  as  a  genie  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar's 
ring.  Then  he  conjured  up  the  vision  of  Barbara's  hand 
with  no  such  ring  upon  it,  and  his  heart  glowed  again.  A 
fig  for  such  a  marriage  as  that!  A  fig  for  anything  that 
strove  to  part  Barbara  from  him,  if  only  he  could  win  her 
love.  .  .  . 

If  only  he  could  win  her  love.  .  .  .  Was  he  winning  it? 
At  the  corner  of  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road  he  looked  ques- 
tioningly  at  the  clock  marking  the  terminus  of  the  tram 
line.  But  it  only  told  him  that  it  was  half-past  six,  and 
that  he  must  not  keep  the  stage  waiting. 

If  Adam  had  learned  nothing  else  at  the  Grand  Theater 
under  Mr.  Onsin's  tutelage,  he  had  learned  that,  whatever 
engagements  one  might  break  or  pledges  falsify,  one  must 
not  keep  the  stage  waiting,  unless  one  happened  to  be  a 
star  actor  or  the  mistress  of  a  famous,  if  frustrate,  com- 
mander. And  even  then,  what  one  gained  in  advertisement 


ADAM  ACCELERATES  271 

one  lost  in  popularity  with  one's  humbler  brethren.  .  .  . 
With  an  odd  feeling  of  exhilaration  he  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  half  a  crown  and,  doing  that  which  he  did  not  do  once 
in  a  blue  moon,  called  a  taxi  and  drove  to  the  theater. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 
OUT  OF  GEAR 

ALTHOUGH  upon  that  wet  and  murky  night  Adam  was  the 
first  of  the  principals  to  reach  the  stage,  where  he  awaited 
some  extra  minutes  his  cue  (so  that  the  stage-manager 
boasted  to  the  prompter  that  he  had  given  one  whom  he 
characterized  as  an  amateur,  qualified  by  an  adjective  more 
appropriate  to  the  military  than  the  theatrical  profession,  a 
lesson),  this  was  in  fact  the  first  occasion  upon  which  he 
believed  that  he  could  play  Lord  Algy  Taplow  better  than 
Mr.  Onsin  or  Mr.  Sackville  or  both  together.  Not  that  he 
desired  to  play  it.  Dear  no!  Romeo  for  him  .  .  .  and 
Hamlet  ...  and  Othello?  Othello?  ...  A  beastly  part, 
but  full  of  fat.  .  .  .  Yes,  when  he  had  a  theater  of  his  own 
he  might  condescend  to  play  Othello.  .  .  .  But  Romeo  for 
preference.  .  .  .  Also,  why  not  the  Playboy?  He  would 
make  the  Playboy  a  purely  romantic  figure,  not  the  dirty 
little  skunk  which  some  argued  was  the  correct  reading  of 
the  part. 

He  went  to  bed  that  night  with  everything  handsome 
about  him,  or  so  it  seemed  as  he  was  falling  asleep  .  .  . 
He  was  a  successful  actor,  and  he  was  about  to  be  a  suc- 
cessful lover,  and  as  it  were  in  the  stride  of  his  success 
he  had  got  very  delightful  chambers  in  the  Temple  at  a 
most  reasonable  figure.  It  was  true  that  they  would  be 
very  dangerous  during  air-raids,  but  Barbara  would  not 
mind  that  any  more  than  he;  and  what  did  it  matter  if  a 
bomb  hit  them,  provided  that  it  hit  them  both  together? 
He  felt  that  if  Barbara  gave  herself  to  him  at  all,  bombs 
would  not  deter  her. 

272 


OUT  OF  GEAR  273 

It  was  disappointing  the  next  day,  when  he  put  on  his 
best  suit  to  go  motoring  with  Barbara  in  Mr.  Duval's  Over- 
land, to  find  no  Barbara  at  the  garage.  Mr.  Duval  gave 
her  ten  minutes'  grace  and  then,  despite  Adam's  protest, 
refused  further  to  wait,  and  made  him  take  his  lesson  alone. 
Disgruntled  as  he  was,  Adam  swallowed  his  agitation  and 
concentrated  on  the  work,  so  that  his  instructor  was  fain 
to  admit  that  yesterday's  lesson  had  not  been  thrown  away. 
"If  you  were  like  this  every  day,"  said  Mr.  Duval,  "you'd 
soon  learn  to  drive." 

Adam  was  so  bucked  by  this  that  he  kept  his  spirits  up 
until  the  afternoon  and  the  hour  came  for  Barbara  to  join 
him  beside  the  corpse  of  the  Knight-Daimler,  but  there  was 
no  Barbara. 

Five  o'clock  came  and  went.  Still  no  Barbara,  and  he 
knew  there  was  no  hope  of  her  now.  The  foul  weather 
that  had  set  in  the  previous  afternoon  stlil  prevailed, 
though  during  the  hour  of  his  driving  lesson  he  had  no 
worse  to  contend  with  than  greasy  surfaces.  .  .  .  Until 
that  evening  he  knew  not  what  a  dreary  place  an  engineer- 
ing workshop  could  be,  nor  what  infinite  melancholy  could 
compress  itself  within  a  cylinder  and  slowly  percolate 
through  the  pores  of  its  metal  walls. 

That  was  the  gloomiest  spring  living  England  could  re- 
member. On  the  Western  Front  she  and  her  allies  were 
being  wedged  asunder  and  flung  back  mangled  towards 
the  southern  rivers  and  the  western  sea :  losing  in  a  day 
what  they  had  won  in  years.  Their  piebald  armies  hailed 
from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  were  welded  together 
only  to  be  powdered  beneath  the  hammer  of  single-minded 
Thor,  starved  not  yet  into  defeat,  but  an  ever  more  frantic 
frenzy  of  valorous  despair. 

But  the  last  fury  of  Prussia's  death  throes  hardly  so 
much  as  flicked  Adam's  consciousness.  He  read  no  more 
than  the  headlines  of  happenings  on  the  Western  Front  or 


274  IN  LONDON 

any  seat  of  war.  He  knew  only  that  despite  the  intricate 
permutation  of  searchlights  quartering  the  sky,  the  German 
airmen  night  after  night  flung  death  and  destruction  into 
London's  heart,  so  that  many  thought  it  must  ere  long 
stop  beating.  And  Paris,  as  he  heard  at  the  theater,  was 
already  bombarded  by  the  Huns'  artillery  safely  emplaced 
behind  their  battle  line.  .  .  .  What  of  that?  What  did 
London  and  Paris  matter  compared  with  his  solicitude  for 
Barbara?  No  more  than  the  cities  beneath  the  Dead  Sea. 
.  .  .  But  what  if  Barbara  had  caught  cold  last  night  on 
that  accursed  bus?  .  .  .  What  if,  like  Caroline  Brady,  she 
suddenly  sickened  and  died? 

Half -past  five.  .  .  .  He  flung  down  his  spanner,  and 
leaving  the  Knight-Daimler  in  worse  case  than  ever,  hur- 
riedly washed  and  walked  across  St.  James's  Park  in  pelt- 
ing rain  to  the  theater.  .  .  .  How  miserable  it  was  in  the 
Park  to-night!  How  exhilarating  two  nights  ago!  .  .  . 
What  a  miracle  of  verve  was  Barbara.  .  .  .  What  could 
have  become  of  her?  ...  A  horrible  thought  clutched  his 
throat  as  he  climbed  the  Duke  of  York's  steps.  Could  she 
have  slain  herself?  .  .  .  He  faltered  through  a  nightmare 
the  last  few  yards  to  the  theater. 

"For  you,  sir?"  asked  Cerberus,  presenting  a  telegram 
addressed:  "Adam  Quinn  Macfadden,  Esquire,  Grand 
Theater,  S.W."  The  message  ran:  "So  sorry,  influenza, 
writing.  Burns."  Not  until  he  noticed  that  it  had  been 
handed  in  at  the  Chelsea  Head  Office  did  he  realize  that 
it  was  from  Barbara.  "Thanks,"  he  said,  in  a  choking 
voice,  to  Cerberus,  and  passed  on  feverishly  to  his  dressing- 
room. 

Again  and  again  he  sighed  with  relief  that  evening.  And 
he  played  his  part  no  worse  than  he  had  done  it  of  late. 
But  he  was  weary  of  it,  weary  of  this  nonsensical  play  in 
which  the  egregious  Onsin  appeared  to  greater  advantage 
than  himself.  Why  had  he  not  waited  for  his  guardian  to 


OUT  OF  GEAR  275 

find  him  an  opening  with  Galsworthy,  or  Masefield,  or 
Shaw?  .  .  .  They  wrote  plays  in  which  an  actor  of  his 
genius  need  not  be  ashamed  to  appear;  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  their  producers  might  hesitate  about  paying 
him  seven  hundred  a  year  for  his  services,  their  receipts 
for  a  year  being  perhaps  no  more  than  those  for  a  few 
weeks  of  What  Rot!  He  was  flatly  ignorant  of  theatrical 
economics.  To  him  success  was  success,  and  failure  fail- 
ure; he  had  yet  to  learn  that  a  distinguished  dramatist 
might  account  a  piece  of  success  from  which  he  had  made 
a  hundred  pounds,  while  a  nonentity  might  deplore  as  a 
failure  some  prodigy  of  his  art  which  had  brought  him  in 
a  thousand. 

From  the  theater  he  hastened  home,  and  was  thrilled  to 
find  Barbara's  letter  already  come.  Miss  Durward  handed 
it  to  him  with  a  sniff.  ...  A  neat-looking  letter  with  an 
agreeable  savor.  .  .  .  He  guessed  she  had  been  sniffing  at 
it  all  the  evening,  and  wished  he  had  the  self-control  to 
get  it  to  his  bedroom  before  opening  it.  But  his  fingers 
had  done  this  while  his  will  was  thinking  about  it,  and 
even  with  Miss  Durward's  eyes  upon  him  he  read: — 

"You  will  miss  me,  perhaps,  a  little  to-day,  dear  Adam, 
when  you  take  your  driving  lesson,  and  I  dare  say  that  I 
too  may  miss  you  and  Mr.  Duval  when  the  hour  comes 
for  it.  But  I  cannot  possibly  go  to  the  garage  to-day,  as 
the  doctor  forbids  it.  That  is  to  say,  of  course,  I  could 
come  to  the  garage,  but  I  couldn't  do  myself  or  any  one 
else  much  good  if  I  got  there.  It  seems  that  I  must  have 
caught  cold  last  night,  and  the  influenza  you  spoke  of  has 
bagged  me.  Very  unfortunate  for  me  just  as  I  was  begin- 
ning to  enjoy  myself,  and  perhaps  you  will  think  it  unfor- 
tunate for  you.  But  please  don't  think  so,  for  it  is  really 
no  good.  I  quite  understand  that  you  think  that  you  are 
still  in  love  with  me,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  enjoy  your 
being  in  love  with  me.  But  all  the  same,  when  I  think  it 


276  IN  LONDOtt 

over  I  hate  the  thought  of  it.     So  please  dismiss  it  from 
your  mind. 

"We  spoke  about  my  painting.  Some  day  perhaps  I 
might  paint  you,  but  what  I  would  really  like  to  do,  and 
perhaps  you  could  do  for  me,  is  to  have  some  sittings  from 
Mr.  Onsin.  It's  not  so  much  that  I  admire  him.  Although, 
as  far  as  actors  go,  I  don't  know  any  one  I  like  better. 
But  what  I'm  thinking  of  is  that  if  I  could  send  a  portrait 
of  him  to  the  Academy,  and  there  is  still  time,  it  might 
possibly  be  accepted.  He  would  make  a  very  fine  portrait 
as  I  would  do  him.  You  might  perhaps  tell  him  this.  You 
need  not  tell  him  that  I  said  so,  but  just  hint  something  of 
the  kind. 

"And  what  a  clever  play  What  Rot!  really  is!  It  puz- 
zles me  completely  to  think  why  Mr.  Macarthy  so  con- 
stantly ridiculed  it;  it  almost  makes  me  suspect  that  he 
was  jealous  of  the  author. 

"My  head  is  aching  too  badly  for  me  to  write  any  more, 
but  you  might  write  me  if  you  have  time.  My  nose  is 
running,  and  I  am  altogether  a  horrible  sight,  or  I  would 
ask  you  to  come  and  see  me ;  but  please  do  not  think  of 
doing  so  on  your  own  until  you  hear  from  me  that  I  am 
better.  Apart  from  my  nose,  we  must  not  run  the  risk  of 
your  picking  up  a  germ  from  me.  You  are  a  very  dear 
person,  and  I  should  not  like  you  to  come  to  harm  through 
your  old  and  affectionate  friend — BARBARA." 

He  stood  with  the  precious  thing  in  his  hand  while  pleas- 
ure and  chagrin  chased  each  other  through  his  blood. 

"Not  Miss  Nightingale's  writing,  I  think,"  his  hostess 
drawled;  "but  of  course  you  won't  want  to  tell  me  who 
it  is."  She  drew  a  long  breath  with  the  suggestion  of  a 
sniff  in  it:  "Anyhow  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to 
Bath." 

Adam  mechanically  expressed  a  hope  that  she  would  be 
comfortable  there,  and  declining  on  the  ground  of  weari- 


OUT  OF  GEAR  277 

ness  her  offer  of  supper,  ascended  to  his  bedroom  to  bury 
himself  again  in  his  treasure,  reading  and  rereading  into 
it  every  possible  and  impossible  hope  and  despair. 

Then  at  last  he  sat  himself  down  to  gush  forth  a  hot 
reply.  His  pen  flew  over  the  paper,  careless  of  punctuation 
and  spelling,  but  pulsing  with  what  seemed  to  him  to  be 
the  topmost  summit  of  passion.  How  terrible  of  her  to  be 
ill:  how  thoughtful  to  write:  how  kind  to  think  of  hinv 
how  cruel  to  say  what  she  said.  How  wise  she  was  and 
how  foolish:  how  generous  and  harsh  and  brave  and  ab- 
surdly fearful.  How  he  died  for  love  of  her  and  would 
not  have  it  otherwise:  but  (oh  ghost  of  Herrick!)  would 
rather  live  for  her:  how  he  could  not  live  without  her  for 
another  hour,  but  would  never  see  her  again  if  she  wished 
it.  And  so  on  for  some  solid  pages :  the  sort  of  letter 
every  male  is  ashamed  to  have  written  and  every  female  is 
rejoiced  to  receive,  even  when  she  scornfully,  or  prudishly, 
or  truly  piously  burns  it  at  the  stake.  A  letter  of  maudlin 
sentimentality,  ludicrous  in  itself,  but  clean  and  pleasing 
to  think  of  as  written  in  that  room  decorated  with  the 
maudlin  sensualities  collected  by  its  former  occupant,  Mr. 
Bourchier-Bellingham. 

Fast  as  his  pen  winged  its  way,  the  small  hours  saw 
him  put  it  at  last  in  its  envelope.  Then  he  stopped  to  think 
that  though  he  brought  it  to  Spring  Street  now,  the  letter 
could  not  in  course  of  post  reach  Chelsea  until  the  after- 
noon. And  he  swore  she  must  have  it  for  her  breakfast, 
dreaming  that  she  might  look  vainly  for  it  on  waking.  .  .  . 
Happy  thought,  to  walk  down  to  Chelsea  then  and  here 
and  leave  it  himself  at  her  flat.  ...  It  looked  a  long  walk 
on  the  map,  an  hour  at  least,  but  despite  his  alleged  weari- 
ness, not  purely  fanciful,  he  felt  he  could  not  sleep,  and 
the  walk  would  do  him  good;  ease  his  nerves,  brace  him, 
make  the  to-morrow  without  her  less  unbearable. 

Out  of  the  house  he  stole  and  out  of  the  square,  and  by 


278  IN  LONDON 

familiarly  named  Clarendon  Street  to  the  Bayswater  Road. 
The  first  Park  gates  he  came  to  were  closed;  so,  knowing 
no  shorter  way,  he  had  to  go  east  past  the  ground  where 
Mr.  Macarthy  had  told  him  that  Yorick  lay  buried,  as  far 
as  Marble  Arch,  before  turning  south  towards  Chelsea.  A 
long  round,  but  the  night  made  it  delicious;  for  the  rain 
had  stopped,  the  temperature  was  rising,  and  the  earth 
smelled  of  spring:  in  the  heart  of  the  darkness  he  was 
conscious  of  life  burgeoning  secretly  around  him  as  of  his 
own  flowering  within.  Earthward  the  gloom  was  intense, 
but  as  he  approached  Piccadilly  the  sky  above  the  trees  re- 
called to  him  a  child's  book  picture  of  the  Northern  Lights. 
Victorious  Peace  drove  her  chariot  over  Hyde  Park  Corner 
on  a  roadway  of  white  flame  towards  the  stars :  east  of  her 
whirled  the  fantastic  windmills,  and  to  the  west  the  Titan's 
scissors  shore  through  the  clouds.  He  thought  now  of  a 
painting  in  the  Dublin  gallery  of  the  opening  of  the  sixth 
seal,  and  from  that  of  how,  at  any  moment,  whole  squad- 
rons of  Deaths  on  pale  horses  of  aluminium  might  ride 
down  the  firmament  and  blast  Victorious  Peace,  chariot, 
champing  team  and  all  into  one  ruin  with  the  hospital 
below. 

The  warm  air  reeked  with  antiseptics  as  he  turned  past 
the  hospital  into  Belgrave  Square.  ...  A  few  minutes 
later  he  was  standing  by  a  letter-box :  the  letter-box  he  had 
seen  spattered  with  his  grandmother's  brains.  Then  he 
passed  on  into  Cliveden  Place,  across  Sloane  Square 
(where  a  Clongowes  boy  was  managing  the  Court  Theater) 
and  into  the  King's  Road:  the  interminable  King's  Road. 
By  this  time  he  was  weary  beyond  question,  and  Joy  Man- 
sions seemed  farther  off  than  ever;  but,  as  day  was  break- 
ing, he  found  them.  An  incredibly  early  milkman  had 
already  penetrated  the  premises;  so  he  was  able  to  reach 
the  hall,  and  found  with  the  aid  of  an  electric  torch  the  in- 


OUT  OF  GEAR  279 

formation  that  the  studio  his  lady  love  occupied  was  on  the 
top  floor. 

He  panted  up  the  concrete  staircase,  and  found  a  light 
shining  under  her  door,  and  heard  her  move  within.  He 
wished  he  had  the  courage  to  knock  .  .  .  but  he  had  not; 
and  there  being  no  letter-box,  he  thrust  his  missive  under 
the  door  and,  turning,  fled. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 
SURRENDER 

THOUGH  panic  drove  Adam  down  the  steps  of  Joy  Man- 
sions, at  the  street  level  the  glass  of  exhilaration  rose 
again:  so  that  he  seemed  to  himself,  with  the  morning 
breeze  flung  on  his  face,  Antony  risen  from  the  arms  of 
Cleopatra.  After  all,  despite  the  anti-climax,  he  had  been 
nearer  Barbara's  arms  and  in  a  sense  more  intimate  with 
her  than  ever  before ;  he  had  heard  in  glamor  the  very  sigh- 
ing of  her  couch  springs  as  she  drew  breath  on  it,  had 
heard  her  cough  musically  as  an  actress  dying  sentimen- 
tally in  a  play;  more  than  that,  his  eyes  had  caught  the 
beams  of  that  light  which  played  upon  her  within.  He  was 
untroubled  by  the  reflection  that,  if  Barbara  had  been  con- 
scious of  his  presence  at  all,  she  must  have  mistaken  him 
for  the  milkman. 

It  was  now  fully  dawn,  and  he  thought  to  himself  he 
might  find  a  shorter  way  home  than  the  route  by  which 
he  had  come ;  so  he  struck  boldly  north,  and  found  himself 
in  a  region  of  great  buildings  strangely  alight  and  buzzing 
for  that  hour  of  the  morning:  they  proved  to  be  that  nest 
of  hospitals  in  the  Fulham  Road.  Into  the  box  for  chose 
stricken  by  cancer  he  put  half  of  the  money  in  his  pocket, 
fancying  that  to  these  sufferers  little  indeed  was  love  and 
still  less  war.  Cancer  to  him  was  still  a  child's  bogey,  com- 
parable with  leprosy  and  hydrophobia  and  the  yet  worse 
plagues  lending  color  to  the  possibility  of  demons  triumph- 
ing over  man:  horrors  that  made  even  mutual  slaughter  a 
human  pleasantry  and  mere  extravagance  of  horseplay. 

280 


SURRENDER  281 

Heart  sickened  again  with  the  oppression  of  these  evils 
mocking  his  charity,  he  wandered  towards  other  lights:  a 
building  decorated  in  the  fashion  of  a  stove:  South  Ken- 
sington Station.  The  first  train  for  Praed  Street  was  almost 
due.  He  descended  to  the  Inner  Circle  platforms,  where 
daylight  had  not  yet  pushed  a  visible  skirmishing  line,  and 
found  soldiers:  privates  of  mixed  units  returning  to  the 
Front:  men  by  his  reckoning  elderly,  frozen  in  despair. 

"My  God,  I'd  give  my  ...  to  be  in  hospital!"  said  one. 
Adam  could  not  catch,  but  guessed  at  the  missing  word. 
The  faces  of  the  others  echoed  the  unholy  sentiment.  One 
spat  on  the  line  as  if  he  were  of  a  mind  to  lay  his  head 
beside  his  sputum  in  front  of  the  incoming  train. 

A  trench  helmet  rattled  down  the  steps  from  the  book- 
ing-ofEce,  followed  by  a  young  Canadian  singing  drunkenly 
to  a  popular  sentimental  air  some  senseless  filth.  As 
Adam's  train  went  out  the  elder  men,  roused  to  an  odd 
competition  in  fatherliness,  were  helping  the  youngster  to 
collect  his  belongings,  and  he  was  cursing  them  for  clumsy 
cripples. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Norfolk  Square  looked  refresh- 
ingly sane  in  the  daylight.  Its  respectable  Victorianism 
touched  Adam's  very  heart.  Intoxicated  with  sleep  and 
romance  and  something  indefinable,  he  turned  all  the  pic- 
tures visible  from  his  pillow  with  their  faces  to  the  wall 
ere  he  went  to  bed. 

Yet  he  woke  again  at  eight  without  the  aid  of  Tomasso, 
who  had  gone  off,  it  seemed,  to  fill  some  hazardous  but 
remunerative  job  of  national  importance,  such  as  spying 
on  his  fellow-countrymen.  There  was  a  letter  that  morn- 
ing from  Major  Macfadden  Smith,  and  Adam  found  him- 
self definitely  confirmed  as  tenant  of  the  chambers  in 
Plowden  Buildings,  at  his  own  figure  for  the  duration  of 
the  war.  This  strengthened  his  tone  in  answering  Miss 
Durward's  query  whether  he  had  left  the  house  in  the  small 


IN  LONDON 

hours:  "I  suppose  you  went  to  post  a  billet-doux  to  your 
lady  love?"  she  suggested. 

"Not  exactly,"  said  he. 

Less  cautiously  she  commented:  "You  were  long  enough 
to  post  a  good  many." 

"Was  I?"  said  he. 

Whereupon  she  made  a  peevish  movement,  upset  a  tea- 
cup over  the  clean  table-cloth  and  lost  her  temper :  "I  won't 
have  such  goings  on  in  this  house.  For  all  I  know  you  may 
have  gone  out  to  .  .  ." 

Adam  saw  red :  "Don't  confuse  me  with  Mr.  Bourchier- 
Bellingham,"  he  cried. 

"You're  far  worse  than  him,"  she  answered,  loosing  the 
cat's  bag;  "he  never  made  any  secrets,  but  you're  a  young 
hypocrite  .  .  .  and  a  coward  too.  .  .  .  Why  aren't  you, 
like  him,  at  the  Front,  trying  to  do  something  to  keep  the 
Huns  from  murdering  decent  people  over  here?  All  you're 
fit  for  is  to  mess  about  with  women  who  don't  know  their 
own  minds."  As  Adam  preserved  a  provocative  calm,  she 
exploded  once  again:  "Even  Macarthy  was  not  as  bad  as 
that  at  your  age.  He  had  some  sense  of  .  .  ."  Tears 
overcame  her  before  she  could  indicate  the  nature  of  the 
sense  she  held  Mr.  Macarthy  to  possess. 

Adam  would  have  liked  to  comfort  her,  but  instinct 
warned  him  to  be  careful.  He  was  slinking  out  of  the 
room,  fancying  himself  covered  from  observation  by  the 
handkerchief  masking  her  eyes,  when  she  dropped  a  de- 
taining hand  on  his  arm  so  suddenly  that  he  nearly  fell 
upon  her.  "Excuse  me  for  behaving  like  this,"  she  bab- 
bled, "it's  all  these  Huns  .  .  .  and  Tomasso  .  .  .  and  I  do 
feel  responsible  to  Mr.  Macarthy  if  ...  but  you  won't  be 
troubled  with  me  for  long;"  here  she  sobbed  hysterically 
and  at  last  made  an  end.  "Kiss  me  as  if  I  was  your 
mother,  and  we'll  say  no  more  about  it." 


SURRENDER  283 

Adam  stood  a  moment  holding  her  hand  and  even  find- 
ing it  in  his  heart  to  pat  it.  "I  can't  kiss  you  as  if  you 
were  my  mother,"  he  apologized,  "because  I  am  fonder  of 
you  that  I  was  of  her,  and  I  respect  you  more  than  I 
did  her;"  so  saying,  he  kissed  her  hand  and  left  the 
room.  He  had  scored  unwittingly  his  first  triumph  with 
a  woman. 

His  guardian  angel  could  not  have  excelled  Miss  Dur- 
ward  in  virtuous  friendliness  for  his  remaining  days  in 
her  house.  She  even  went  down  to  Plowden  Buildings  to 
see  him  comfortably  settled  in,  and  impressed  the  char- 
woman with  the  sinfulness  of  wronging  in  thought  or  deed 
so  beautiful  a  young  gentleman.  Her  valediction  was :  "Up 
•in  this  eyrie  you'll  be  like  a  bird  without  a  mate.  I  don't 
know  what'll  become  of  you."  But  she  spoke  with  ir- 
reproachable detachment;  for  within  the  coarse  folds  of 
her  spiritual  garment  lay  wounded,  but  not  dead,  the  emo- 
tions of  frustrate  maternity. 

But  if  Miss  Durward  was  kind  and  kinder  than  of  old, 
not  so  Barbara.  His  precious  letter  was  left  unanswered 
for  three  weeks  and  a  day;  and  only  the  distraction  of 
entertaining  the  less  unbearable  members  of  the  Grand 
company  on  Sundays,  the  one  day  he  was  not  busy  at  the 
theater  or  the  garage,  kept  him  from  despair.  The  floor 
round  his  bed  was  littered  with  the  sentimental  poetry 
books  presented  to  Major  Macfadden  Smith  by  his  brother, 
and  the  learned  heroes  of  the  Devil's  Own  Volunteers  had 
their  nights  made  hideous  by  his  passionate  voice  flinging 
his  grandfather's  romantics  from  the  roof  of  Plowden 
Buildings  into  the  void. 

Then,  when  he  had  with  the  vigor  of  youth  expelled 
Barbara  from  the  innermost  circle  of  his  system,  and  was 
becoming  conscious  of  the  charms  of  Mrs.  Onsin's  new 
understudy,  Cynthia  Churchill,  a  younger  sister  of  Dru- 


284  IN  LONDON 

silla  Dartmouth,  Barbara  suddenly  reappeared.  There  she 
was,  one  Monday  morning,  sitting  in  Mr.  Duval's  Over- 
land, and  nodding  to  Adam  as  easily  as  if  he  were  just 
nobody,  good  or  bad. 

"I  hope  you're  all  right  again?"  he  murmured,  with  ten- 
der banality. 

"Quite,"  she  said  blankly,  and  obeyed,  not  very  success- 
fully, Mr.  Duval's  direction  to  reverse  out  of  the  yard. 

By  this  time  Adam  was  the  better  driver,  despite  sundry 
awkward  lapses  contrived  by  his  artistic  temperament.  In 
difficulties  he  was  admirable,  but  out  of  them  less  success- 
ful; and  on  clear  roads,  presenting  no  hazards,  his  pace 
might  be  eight  or  eight  and  twenty  miles  an  hour  without 
his  appearing  conscious  of  the  difference. 

"All  mighty  fine  for  a  private  owner,"  swore  Mr.  Duval, 
"but  for  God's  sake  never  take  up  a  real  job." 

"Don't  you  think  I  could  drive  an  ambulance?"  Adam 
asked  modestly. 

"  'Eaven  'elp  the  poor  blighters,"  Mr.  Duval  answered 
him. 

Adam  was  annoyed  with  Mr.  Duval  for  criticizing  him 
in  the  presence  of  Barbara;  and  that  Monday  Mr.  Duval 
had  a  pair  of  naughty  pupils,  Barbara  being  markedly  can- 
tankerous. But  Mr.  Duval  was  patient  with  her,  saying 
only  at  the  end  of  the  lesson :  "  'Flu  is  an  awful  disease, 
madam;  I  know  'ow  you're  feeling.  Like  recovering  from 
a  sick  drunk." 

Adam  was  indignant,  but  Barbara  laughed:  "Something 
like  that,"  she  said. 

To  Mr.  Duval  Barbara  could  be  gracious,  but  the  face 
she  turned  to  her  suitor  was  adamant  when  he  pleaded: 
"Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letter?" 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  mine?"  she  retorted. 

Adam   stared   at  her,   for   a   moment   glimpsing   hope. 


SURRENDER  285 

"You  wrote  an  answer  to  the  letter  I  left  at  your  studio?" 

"I  did  not,"  she  riposted ;  "it  called  for  no  answer,  since 
it  was  not  an  answer  to  mine." 

"But  it  was!"  cried  Adam,  "I  sat  up  all  night  writing 
it,  and  then  carried  it  down  all  the  way  to  Chelsea  myself, 
that  you  might  have  it  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Surely 
it  was  a  love-letter  if  ever  there  was  one?" 

"I  did  not  ask  you  to  write  me  a  love-letter,"  she  said 
icily;  "I  asked  you  to  give  me  an  introduction  to  Oswald 
Onsin.  Why  didn't  you  do  that  instead  of  writing  me 
nonsense?" 

Then  rage  seized  on  Adam's  heart,  so  that  he  had  a  mind 
to  beat  her.  But  he  merely  lifted  his  hat  with  elaborate 
courtesy,  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  out  of  the  garage 
yard,  with  the  intention  never  to  reenter  it. 

Weeks  flowed  into  months,  spring  begot  summer  and 
was  put  away  with  the  past.  The  Western  Front  buckled 
and  gave:  visibly  it  crumbled  away,  but  the  ocean  was 
alive  with  ship-loads  of  fresh  buttresses;  and  in  the  East 
the  sun  was  breaking  through  the  clouds. 

Adam  read  a  column  or  two  of  war  news  in  The  Times 
every  morning,  but  it  all  seemed  to  him  of  trivial  im- 
portance ;  for  Cynthia  Churchill  came  to  tea  with  him  again 
and  again.  She  was  sweetly  pretty,  prettier  than  Barbara, 
if  less  distinguished :  prettier  than  her  sister,  Drusilla  Dart- 
mouth, better  educated  and  at  once  less  silly,  and  less 
canny:  in  short,  a  companionable  and  charming  little  lady, 
appealing  to  the  senses  and  not  devastating  to  the  mind. 
Only  Adam's  shyness  stood  between  him  and  the  promise 
of  great  happiness. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  June  they  sat  for  hours  on 
the  roof,  and  reached  the  point  of  being  all  but  engaged; 
for  she  had  more  than  signified  her  willingness  to  marry 
him,  and  he  had  all  but  asked  her.  Summoning  his  grand- 


286  IN  LONDON 

father's  ghostly  aid,  he  had  read  her  one  of  Sir  David's 
sonnets  called  Surrender,  and  his  guest  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands  as  she  listened : — 

"You  wonder  why  you  yielded.     Reason  veiled 
By  treacherous  unreason  bubbled  your  blood 
To  weak  surrender.     Had  you  but  withstood 
His  forlorn  hope,  then  his  assault  had  failed. 
Had  you  but  kept  your  color  and  not  paled 
When  his  trump  blew  Retreat.    Had  he  not  seen 
Your  white  flag  flying  where  defeat  had  been, 
Your  virgin  citadel  were  yet  unsealed. 
Is  your  war  over  or  but  just  begun  ? 
Can  you  retrench  the  breach  'gainst  storm  again? 
Where  lodgment  once  has  been  defense  is  vain, 
Unless  the  conqueror  weary  of  what's  won  .  .  . 
Forth  with  your  keys  and  open  fling  the  gate, 
To  greet  his  trumpeter  whose  name  is  Fate." 

As  Adam's  voice  dropped  Cynthia  dropped  her  hands; 
and  she  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  her  violet  eyes  all 
misty,  her  red  lips  slightly  parted,  and  in  these  febrile 
days  who  shall  say  but  she  and  Adam  might  almost  have 
fallen  a-kissing,  when  a  bald-headed  gentleman  bobbed  half 
his  person  out  of  a  window  and  hailed  Adam  with  the  in- 
formation that  for  ten  minutes  past  some  one  had  been 
summoning  his  door. 

While  Miss  Churchill  straightened  herself  upon  her  chair 
Adam  descended  amidst  a  volley  of  knocks,  punctuated  by 
peals  at  the  bell,  to  find  Barbara  on  the  mat.  Then  came 
a  blurred  quarter  of  an  hour;  and  Cynthia  was  gone  and 
Barbara  reclining  in  her  chair  with  her  grandfather's 
poems  in  her  lap. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 
LONDON'S  LAST  AIR-RAID 

"AND  may  I  ask,"  said  Barbara,  "why  you  were  so  long 
answering  the  door?" 

Adam  answered  simply,  but  already  as  one  on  his  de- 
fense: "Miss  Churchill  and  I  were  out  here.  ...  I  didn't 
expect  any  callers.  We  didn't  hear  any  one  until  a  neigh- 
bor told  me  there  was  some  one  at  the  door.  .  .  .  I'm  aw- 
fully sorry." 

"So  am  I,"  quoth  Barbara,  "for  I  never  thought  I  should 
be  kept  waiting  by  you  because  of  another  woman.  You're 
very  fickle,  Adam." 

"I  am  not  fickle,"  Adam  declared,  "but  I'm  not  altogether 
a  fool." 

"Far  from  it,"  Barbara  agreed,  "I  admire  your  taste. 
She's  quite  pretty  and  not  bad  style  for  an  actress."  She 
threw  a  glance  behind  her.  "Where  did  you  say  you  were 
when  I  knocked?" 

"Out  here,"  declared  Adam,  reddening.  "How  do  you 
know  she  was  an  actress?" 

Barbara  glanced  at  him  contemptuously.  "Do  you  know 
any  woman  over  here  who  isn't  an  actress?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  he  snapped  at  her,  and  then  wished 
he  had  been  less  emphatic;  for  she  did  not  let  the  state- 
ment pass  unchallenged,  but  asked  whom  he  knew  that  was 
not  an  actress. 

"Miss  Durward  is  not  an  actress,"  he  strove  by  a  lofty 
tone  to  prove  his  case. 

But  Barbara  was  too  much  for  him.  "Your  landlady," 
she  admitted,  "is  not  an  actress,  and  I  suppose  in  a  sense 
you  know  her.  Any  one  else?" 

28* 


288  IN  LONDON 

"The  Countess  of  Derrydown,"  he  said  impressively. 

But  Barbara  was  not  impressed.  "Lady  Derrydown  used 
to  be  in  the  front  row  at  the  Gaiety.  .  .  .  Any  one  else?" 
she  queried. 

Adam  was  forced  to  play  his  trump  card:  "Miss  Jane 
Nightingale." 

Barbara  clapped  her  hands.  "You've  won.  Old  Jane 
Nightingale  really  is  respectable.  Tell  me  about  her.  I 
suppose  Stephen  gave  you  an  introduction  to  her.  She 
was  an  old  flame  of  his;  ...  perhaps  the  only  one  that 
really  burned.  .  .  .  Though  my  mother  pretends  he  was 
very  fond  of  her."  She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair. 
"I  simply  can't  stand  my  mother  sometimes.  .  .  Tell  me 
about  Miss  Nightingale.  She  doesn't  look  so  very  old,  they 
say.  Too  placid  to  wear  out.  Are  you  in  love  with  her 
too?" 

"Not  in  the  sense  that  I  am  with  you,"  said  Adam. 

Barbara  laughed  gleefully.  "So  you  are  in  love  with  me 
still?  Well  you  can  be  now  if  you  like.  But  there  must 
be  no  one  else:  neither  Miss  Nightingale  nor  the  little 
actress,  nor  any  one  else." 

Adam  was  moved  within,  but  presented  an  external 
stolidity,  for  he  was  determined  not  to  be  played  with. 
"Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that?"  he  asked. 

Barbara  laughed  in  his  face.  "What  do  you  take  me 
for?  A  sloppy  schoolgirl?  ...  I  came  here  to  have  a  look 
at  the  Law  Courts,  if  you  want  to  know.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  to  know,"  said  Adam  resentfully,  though 
he  tried  to  sound  polite. 

Barbara  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Anyhow  that's  why 
I  came,  and  then  I  remembered  that  you  told  me  you  lived 
here,  and  thought  you  might  be  interested  to  see  me." 
Smiling  in  his  sulky  face,  she  went  on :  "I  thought  I  might 
even  be  able  to  persuade  you  to  give  me  tea." 

Adam  made  a  shamefaced  movement.    "I  beg  your  par- 


LONDON'S  LAST  AIR-RAID  $89 

don,"  said  he.  "I'll  have  a  kettle  on  in  a  moment,"  and 
passing  through  the  bedroom  to  the  kitchen,  he  not  only 
put  the  kettle  on  the  gas-stove,  but  cooled  himself  by  let- 
ting the  cold  water  tap  run  on  his  head.  He  returned  to 
her  affably  bearing  some  fresh  tea  things. 

Said  Barbara:  "I  see  Miss  Churchill  has  eaten  all  the 
cake." 

"She  didn't,  I  ate  it,"  said  Adam  chivalrously. 

But  Barbara  went  on  laughing  at  him:  "Don't  be  quix- 
otic. Well  I  remember  you  never  ate  anything  but  bread 
and  butter.  And  why  shouldn't  a  woman  eat  cake  if  she's 
prepared  to  pay  the  price?  All  the  old-fashioned  senti- 
ment is  as  dead  as  Pharaoh  and  Queen  Victoria.  Women 
nowadays  mean  to  have  what  they  want." 

"Did  you  have  what  you  wanted  when  you  married 
Leaper-Carahar  ?"  Adam  asked  less  urbanely. 

"No,"  she  answered  point  blank,  "but  I  wasn't  a  woman 
then.  I  know  better  now.  And  when  I  found  he  was  not 
what  I  wanted  I  didn't  stick  him  long."  Her  strongly 
beautiful  eyes  flashed  as  she  added,  in  a  tone  to  make  some 
men  tremble :  "Nor  do  I  mean  to  stick  any  one  long  who 
isn't  what  I  want." 

Adam's  glance  fell  before  her.  "Anyhow,"  he  said 
meekly,  "there's  plenty  more  cake." 

After  that  their  talk  was  less  stormy,  and  Barbara  con- 
descended to  say  that  he  knew  how  to  make  tea,  and  that 
she  was  glad  she  had  come.  She  had  been  there  about  an 
hour  when  she  bade  him  show  her  his  premises,  and  under 
his  blushing  conduct  she  inspected  every  inch  with  an  air 
of  detached  and  patronizing  interest.  "Not  bad,"  said  she 
when  the  tour  was  finished,  and  she  led  the  way  back  to 
the  roof.  "I  like  it  best  out  here."  She  swept  her  eyes 
towards  the  river :  "What  a  jolly  view  you  must  get  of  air- 
raids!" 

Adam  confessed  that  he  had  not  been  there  long  enough 


290  IN  LONDON 

to  say  whether  it  afforded  an  entertaining  prospect  of  air- 
raids or  not.  He  told  her  of  the  raid  which  had  impressed 
him  most,  and  of  his  vision  of  Miss  Nightingale  and  the 
ambulance  in  Broad  Sanctuary. 

"I  suppose  it  was  that  made  you  take  up  motoring," 
Barbara  suggested.  "How  sentimental  you  are.  .  .  .  And 
is  Woodbine  Blake  another  of  your  flames  ?  You  really  are 
a  little  Don  Juan." 

Now  Adam  knew  himself  perfectly  well  to  be  nothing 
of  the  kind,  but  he  could  not  resist  a  self-conscious  smile 
at  this  delicious  blame.  Nevertheless  he  said  modestly  that 
he  feared  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Barbara  eyed  him  critically:  "Perhaps  not.  But  you 
will  be  later  on.  .  .  .  It's  in  your  blood,  you  know,  just  as 
it  is  in  mine." 

His  eye  caught  hers,  but  had  not  the  courage  to  hold  it. 
He  took  the  book  of  verses  off  the  table  where  it  now  lay. 
"You're  thinking  of  our  grandfather?" 

Barbara  nodded.  "Yes.  I  know  he  was  yours  too.  The 
Marchesa  made  that  quite  clear  to  me.  What  a  life  that 
woman  had!" 

Said  Adam:  "And  what  a  death!" 

Barbara  shrugged  her  shoulders:  "Dramatic  and  soon 
done  with.  ...  It  might  have  been  worse." 

Adam  shivered:  "If  you'd  heard  her  groan  as  they  car- 
ried her  in."  There  was  less  bravado  in  Barbara's  tone  as 
she  rejoined :  "I  forget  that  you  were  there.  .  .  .  But  any- 
how, things  horrible  for  onlookers  are  often  nothing  to  the 
people  who  seem  to  suffer.  .  .  .  Reflex  action  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Stephen  Macarthy  always  says  that  grandfather 
probably  enjoyed  being  killed.  I  shouldn't  mind  it  myself 
in  a  fair  fight.  ...  I  wish  English  women  could  be  sol- 
diers like  in  Russia." 

"There  have  been  English  women  soldiers,  but  they 
passed  for  men." 


LONDON'S  LAST  AIR-RAID  291 

Barbara  took  the  new  turning :  "Do  you  really  think  that 
a  woman  could  pass  for  a  man  for  long  among  other  men  ?" 

Adam  shifted  uneasily:  "It's  a  difficult  question,"  he 
murmured;  "I  don't  know  enough  about  it." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  very  hard:  "Tell  me  honestly, 
how  much  do  you  know  about  women?" 

Adam  confronted  her  just  long  enough  to  say :  "I  don't 
know  how  much  I  know,  that's  the  truth."  Dropping  his 
eyes,  he  added :  "If  what  the  Marchesa  told  me  is  true,  I 
know  just  a  little  more  than  you  do  about  men." 

Promptly  she  demanded:  "What  did  the  Marchesa  tell 
you  about  me?" 

Adam  walked  to  and  fro  uneasily.  "Only  about  hiding 
in  your  bedroom.  ...  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  she 
said."  He  looked  to  his  wrist-watch  for  suggestion :  "Look 
here,  it's  seven  o'clock,  you'd  better  let  me  give  you  dinner 
somewhere." 

"It's  easier  to  talk  here,"  said  Barbara. 

"But  you  can't  eat  here,"  said  Adam ;  "you  can't  dine  on 
cake,  and  I've  nothing  else.  Do  come  out  and  have  a  meal 
with  me  for  once.  You've  never  done  that  all  the  years 
I've  known  you." 

Barbara  rose,  laughing:  "I  see  you  want  to  get  rid  of 
me." 

"Don't  mock  me,"  said  Adam.  "Why  should  I  want  to 
get  rid  of  you?" 

Provokingly  she  answered:  "You're  afraid  to  face  Miss 
Churchill  to-morrow." 

Although  Adam  had  not  thought  of  this,  he  was  silenced 
by  the  truth  of  it;  but  putting  on  his  best  face,  he  rejoined: 
"Much  you  know  about  it.  Anyhow,  come  along." 

As  always  to  Adam  on  Sundays,  Fleet  Street  was  dream- 
like when  he  and  Barbara  passed  down  it  in  search  of  food. 
He  still  knew  little  of  the  customs  of  the  City,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  the  neighboring  restaurant,  where  he  had 


292  IN  LONDON 

meant  to  bring  her,  closed.  This  ought  to  have  warned 
him  to  turn  west  instead  of  east;  but,  absent-mindedly,  he 
led  her  on  until  she  called  a  halt  at  an  unpretentious  en- 
trance near  Bouverie  Street.  "This  looks  Italian,"  she 
said ;  "let  us  pretend  we  are  in  Italy." 

They  found  themselves  almost  alone  with  an  elderly 
waiter,  whom  they  bewildered  by  addressing  in  the  choic- 
est Tuscan  acquired  in  the  Italian  circle  at  the  Muses  Club. 
They  refreshed  themselves  exotically  on  vermicelli  soup 
and  macaroni  cheese  washed  down  with  Chianti.  Both 
were  very  thirsty,  and  the  draughts  of  Chianti  were  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  rations  of  macaroni  cheese:  that  gen- 
erous wine  inspired  them  to  oblivion  of  each  other's  short- 
comings, and  Adam  was  hoping  that  they  might  part  that 
night  on  a  basis  of  firm  and  promising  friendship,  not 
necessarily  troubling  to  Miss  Churchill,  when  there  fell 
upon  their  ears  One  and  Two  and  Three  and  Four  strokes 
of  warning  of  the  uncertainty  of  fate,  and  the  elderly 
waiter  all  but  let  fall  a  Neapolitan  ice  as  he  indulged  him- 
self in  an  expletive  in  his  native  tongue. 

As  Adam  looked  at  Barbara  he  almost  fancied  that  he 
heard  the  wings  of  doom:  he  seemed  to  hear  the  street 
outside  wax  noisy  and  fall  more  than  ever  silent.  Time 
flew  while  Barbara  daintily  helped  herself  to  the  ice. 

"You  heard  the  warning?    It's  an  air-raid,"  Adam  said. 

"What  of  that?"  said  Barbara.  The  elderly  waiter 
hastened  with  the  bill,  and  gesticulated  the  need  for 
despatch  that  he  might  close  the  door  and  hide  beneath 
the  Chianti.  Barbara  looked  to  Adam:  "Can't  I  have  cof- 
fee?" she  asked. 

Adam  read  in  the  waiter's  face  an  incapacity  to  distin- 
guish between  coffee  and  asparagus.  He  paid  the  bill. 
"I'm  afraid  it's  no  use  trying  to  get  coffee  here,"  he  said. 

Barbara  pursed  her  lips.  "I  noticed  a  coffee  mill  in  your 
kitchen,"  she  said. 


LONDON'S  LAST  AIR-RAID  293 

Adam  looked  at  her  imploringly.  "I  dare  not  ask  you 
there,"  he  said,  "it's  dangerous." 

"In  what  way?"  she  demanded  coldly. 

"I  mean,"  said  Adam,  "it's  considered  very  dangerous  in 
air-raids.  An  old  building,  not  fireproof." 

Barbara  rose  and  shook  herself.  "If  you  think  I  care 
sixpence  whether  it's  dangerous  or  not,  I  may  as  well  go 
home,"  she  said. 

"All  the  way  to  Chelsea?"  Adam  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  to  St.  John's  Wood/'  she  answered;  "I  moved 
yesterday." 

"If  you're  near  a  station,  that  would  be  safer,"  said 
Adam;  "you  could  go  almost  all  the  way  by  tube  from 
Aldwych." 

"Bring  me  to  Aldwych,"  she  said  sharply. 

As  they  reached  the  street  the  guns  were  audible  from 
down  the  river,  and  as  Adam  and  Barbara  walked  up  Fleet 
Street,  up  came  the  roar  of  the  guns  after  them,  faster  and 
faster,  until  Barbara  made  him  turn  to  watch  the  shrapnel 
all  red-gold  above  the  City  in  the  evening  gloom.  "This  is 
gorgeous,"  she  cried,  "I'm  not  going  to  bury  myself  in  the 
earth  with  lovely  things  like  that  to  see."  She  looked  at 
him:  "Is  your  flat  too  dangerous  for  you?  The  outside, 
I  mean,  not  the  inside." 

Chianti,  fresh  air  and  shrapnel  betrayed  Adam  into  the 
answer :  "Come  and  see." 

It  seemed  to  him  the  very  next  moment  they  were  on 
the  roof  of  Plowden  Buildings  and  the  world  on  fire  all 
round  them.  He  was  drunk  and  in  the  possession  of  only 
three  notions;  and  not  sure  what  these  notions  were,  but 
all  revolved  round  Barbara.  In  the  height  of  the  tumult 
she  flung  an  impulsive  hand  to  him:  "What  if  a  bomb 
struck  us  now!"  she  cried. 

"It  would  be  well,"  said  he,  but  he  did  not  touch  her 
hand,  for  the  clearest  of  his  notions  was  that  she  and 


294  IN  LONDON 

Cynthia  Churchill  had  both  been  his  guests  that  day,  and 
he  must  betray  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Besides,  at 
heart  he  was  still  afraid  of  Barbara,  still  distrustful  of  her 
phantasy.  From  this  instant  they  both  sobered  and  fell 
into  dullness  as  the  firing  died  away.  They  had  been  sit- 
ting in  silence  a  very  long  time  when  Barbara  shivered  and 
yawned.  "The  best  of  things  come  to  an  end,"  she  said; 
"how  can  I  get  home?" 

Adam  looked  at  his  watch :  "You  can't  unless  you  walk," 
he  answered,  "it's  one  o'clock." 

She  started  up  and  then  sat  down  again  laughing.  "May 
I  have  a  rug,"  she  asked,  "and  sleep  in  this  chair?" 

Adam  hesitated  before  saying:  "Would  you  mind  my 
bed?" 

And  she  hesitated  before  replying:  "What  would  you 
do?" 

"There's  a  big  Chesterfield  in  the  sitting-room." 
Why  shouldn't  I  have  that?"  asked  Barbara. 

Adam  answered  cheerfully:  "I'll  spare  you  details,  but 
you'd  be  more  comfortable  in  my  bedroom.'* 

Barbara  laughed  outright:  "Little  tyrant!"  said  she. 

So  Adam  had  his  way,  and  Barbara  prepared  to  go  to 
bed  in  the  room  sacred  to  the  meeting  of  Jane  Nightingale 
and  Major  Macfadden  Smith. 

"Leave  me  grandfather's  poems  to  read,"  she  said,  "and 
tell  me,  what  morning  paper  do  you  get?" 

"On  Sunday,"  said  Adam,  "the  Observer.  Do  you  wish 
to  see  it?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "I  mean  on  week-days." 

"The  Times  and  the  Daily  News,"  said  Adam. 

"Good,"  said  Barbara,  "have  you  Saturday's  Times?" 

He  told  her  that  if  the  charwoman  or  the  mice  had  not 
eaten  it,  it  should  be  somewhere  about  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  as  she  was  undressing  he  brought  it  to  her. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  called,  and  then  opening  the  door 


LONDON'S  LAST  AIR-RAID  295 

to  admit  him  displayed  herself  in  his  pyjamas.  He  was 
tempted  to  kiss  the  hand  that  took  the  paper  from  him  and 
the  feet  white  and  naked  beneath  the  trouser  legs,  but 
soberly  he  bade  her  good-night.  Yet  not  entirely  without  a 
twinge  did  he  hear  her  lock  the  door  as  he  descended  to 
the  sitting-room.  He  stood  there  a  long  while  in  darkness 
looking  out  of  the  window,  trying  to  recall  his  conversa- 
tion with  Cynthia  Churchill,  trying  not  to  think  of  Bar- 
bara. The  effort  at  self-mastery  wore  him  out  at  last,  and 
he  sidled  into  a  chair  and  dozed. 

He  was  wakened  by  a  sharp  concussion  and  started  up 
thinking  the  raid  had  begun  again;  but  there  was  no 
sound,  so  he  sat  down  once  more  and  was  dropping  off 
when  there  was  another  bang,  this  time  quite  clearly  on 
the  floor  above.  His  thought  was  that  some  part  of  the 
ancient  building  was  falling  in  as  the  result  of  the  cannon- 
ade, and  that  perhaps  even  as  he  stood  there  Barbara  might 
be  struck  and  slain.  In  an  instant  he  was  up  the  staircase, 
determined  if  necessary  to  force  the  door. 

It  yielded  without  force.  One  light  was  still  on  in  the 
room,  and  showed  Barbara  calmly  asleep,  still  wearing  his 
pyjamas.  Beside  the  bed  on  the  floor  lay  The  Times  and 
beside  The  Times  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn's  poems.  He 
told  himself  that  he  had  heard  them  falling  on  the  floor, 
and  did  not  stop  to  wonder  how  they  had  come  to  fall  upon 
it  twice.  He  only  thought  that  he  must  make  sure  there 
had  been  no  accident,  that  she  had  not  been  hurt.  He  stole 
across  the  room  on  tip-toe  and  assured  himself  that  her 
sleep  was  normal,  that  she  was  breathing  regularly,  that 
not  so  much  as  a  speck  of  plaster  had  fallen  from  the  ceil- 
ing. ...  It  was  queer  to  see  her  in  his  pyjamas;  if  he 
wore  them  like  that  he  thought  he  would  catch  cold:  he 
looked  away  from  her  to  her  clothes  piled  on  a  chair,  and 
from  them  to  the  book  of  poems  on  the  floor.  He  lifted 
and  found  it  open  at  the  sonnet  he  had  read  to  Cynthia 


296  IN  LONDON 

that  afternoon.  He  closed  the  book  convulsively  and  gazed 
long  upon  Barbara.  He  turned  to  go ;  ...  he  turned  back 
and  looked  at  her  again.  .  .  .  He  told  himself  she  was  his 
guest:  he  must  not  presume  on  anything  she  had  said  or 
seemed  to  say,  done  or  seemed  to  do:  he  must  not  run 
the  tiniest  risk  of  hurting  or  offending  her:  he  must  make 
her  feel  as  safely  at  home  with  him  as  if  he  were  her 
brother  or  their  old  and  common  friend,  Mr.  Macarthy 
himself.  He  was  turning  to  go  when  Barbara  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  up  at  him:  "You  sweet  person,"  said  she. 

Adam  shrank  back:  "I  beg  your  pardon.  ...  I  thought 
you  were  asleep;  .  .  .  something  fell,"  he  stuttered. 

"Did  something  fall?"  asked  Barbara  sleepily,  and  as, 
not  catching  the  question,  he  made  a  movement  as  though 
really  to  depart,  she  spoke  again. 

"Don't  go  away,"  she  murmured,  closing  her  eyes;  and, 
as  he  hesitated,  continued  in  the  same  low  voice:  "you  can 
sit  beside  the  bed  if  you  like." 

"But  will  you  be  able  to  sleep?"  he  asked,  still  with  an 
air  of  apology  for  his  intrusion. 

In  her  turn  she  asked:  "Why  not?" 

This  seemed  a  simple  question;  but  he  failed  to  find  the 
answer.  And  after  ten  minutes'  vain  search,  while  she 
lay  silent,  motionless  and  so  calmly  lovely  that  he  fancied 
her  the  Sleeping  Beauty  that  might  never  wake,  her  lips 
parted  just  enough  to  say  in  a  voice  so  drowsy  that  he 
caught  slowly  the  words,  and  more  slowly  still  their  mean- 
ing :  "What  is  it  that  man  Duval  is  always  saying  we  must 
do  when  we  turn  a  corner?" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 
AND  SO  THEY  WERE  MARRIED 

THOUGH  it  was  only  five  o'clock  summer  time,  the  hottest 
sun  of  June  that  year  was  already  beating  on  the  roof  of 
Plowden  Buildings.  Adam  rose  and  looked  at  himself  in 
the  glass.  .  .  .  Could  it  be  really  he?  ...  Everything  was 
incredible.  His  glass  gave  him  no  reason  for  its  not  being 
a  dream.  But  anyhow,  dream  or  no  dream,  his  chief 
thought  was  that  Barbara  must  be  gone  before  the  char- 
woman came;  .  .  .  unless  indeed  she  elected  to  stay  for 
ever,  and  he  doubted  her  willingness  to  do  that. 

She  was  still  placidly  asleep,  as  placidly  as  she  seemed 
when  he  had  so  innocently  come  upstairs  last  night:  as 
placidly  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened.  She  did  not 
look  so  beautiful  as  he  had  always  dreamed  she  would  look 
in  her  sleep :  not  so  beautiful  as  she  had  looked  last  night ! 
Still  she  had  a  beauty  not  to  be  despised.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment he  was  ready  to  endow  her  with  a  thousand  charms 
of  which  bodily  perfection  was  the  least.  This  morning  he 
told  himself  fervently  that  he  would  never  allow  himself  to 
think  of  her  mere  physical  attraction  again.  It  was  not 
right  so  to  think  of  a  woman  one  truly  loved.  He  must 
put  such  unworthiness  away.  A  flood  of  exaltation  flung 
him  on  his  knees  by  her  bedside,  and  he  would  have  poured 
forth  thanksgiving  had  not  his  eyes  fallen  on  The  Times 
lying  where  she  had  thrown  it.  They  focused  themselves 
on  a  cross-heading :  "Irish  Official's  Divorce  Case.'* 

Still  on  his  knees,  his  left  hand  unconsciously  upon  her 
feet,  his  right  holding  the  paper,  he  read: — 

"LEAPER-CARAHAR  v.  LEAPER-CARAHAR  AND  MACARTHY. 
(Before  Mr.  Justice  Doncaster  and  a  Common  Jury.) 

297 


298  IN  LONDON 

"In  this  case  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  a  well-known 
official  of  the  Irish  Government,  obtained  a  decree  nisi 
against  his  wife,  Barbara  Leaper-Carahar,  whose  maiden 
name  was  Burns,  on  the  ground  of  her  adultery  with 
Stephen  Macarthy.  Damages  were  claimed,  but  on  the  ad- 
vice of  his  Lordship,  after  examining  the  petitioner,  the 
claim  was  withdrawn.  There  was  no  defense. 

"Mr.  Bolsover,  for  the  petitioner,  said  that  the  parties 
were  married  as  recently  as  the  beginning  of  the  previous 
year,  when  the  grounds  for  the  present  case  arose.  There 
were  no  children.  Petitioner  was  aware  of  an  earlier  in- 
timacy between  his  wife  and  the  co-respondent,  whom 
counsel  described  as  a  gentleman  of  liberal  means  with 
worse  than  liberal  views.  On  account  of  the  notoriously 
coarse  moral  fiber  of  the  co-respondent,  petitioner  had  in- 
sisted that  this  intimacy  should  cease;  but  within  a  year 
of  marriage  respondent  had  locked  him  out  of  her  bed- 
room, and  on  finding  that  in  her  absence  the  key  had  been 
removed,  left  the  house  and  refused  to  return.  Evidence 
was  given  that  she  had  gone  directly  to  co-respondent's 
chambers  and  remained  there  for  several  days  and  nights, 
subsequently  proceeding  to  London,  where  she  was  now 
domiciled,  presumably,  as  she  had  no  private  means,  under 
the  protection  of  co-respondent. 

"Mr.  Justice  Doncaster  pronounced  a  decree  nisi  with 
costs." 

Adam  leaped  convulsively  to  his  feet,  the  paper  clutched 
in  his  hand.  There  seemed  no  sense  in  anything:  his  brain 
appeared  to  open  and  shut.  Was  it  he  who  was  standing 
up  or  he  who  was  lying  in  his  bed  looking  at  him?  Who 
was  it  that  was  lying  in  his  bed  looking  at  him?  He  was 
just  in  time  to  see  Barbara's  smile  transformed  from  the 
gracious  to  the  cynical.  She  was  the  first  to  speak.  "If 
that  is  how  you  feel,  the  sooner  I  go  home  the  better." 


AND  SO  THEY  WERE  MARRIED  299 

"I  agree,"  said  he. 

Her  eyes  shot  through  him.  "Please  leave  the  room," 
she  commanded,  and  with  a  gesture  rather  of  despair  than 
rage  he  obeyed. 

It  was  queer  to  hear  the  key  turn  again  in  the  lock  as 
he  descended,  and  queerer  still  to  hear  her  methodically 
turning  on  the  geyser  for  her  hot  bath.  Queerest  of  all, 
that  he  took  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  as  it  was  Monday 
morning  she  would  find  an  unused  bath  towel  on  the  rail: 
he  would  have  been  ashamed  for  her  to  find  a  dirty  towel 
there. 

Already  cooling  from  the  first  torrent  of  rage,  he  set 
himself  to  make  her  some  tea,  creeping  upstairs  and  about 
the  kitchen  on  tiptoe  lest  he  should  disturb  her. 

But  Barbara  would  have  no  more  of  his  hospitality.  She 
flung  one  short  tirade  in  his  face:  "Because  when  I  come 
to  see  you  I  allowed  things  to  happen  like  this,  I  suppose 
you  think  the  same  happens  everywhere.  .  .  .  You  forget 
that  Stephen  Macarthy  is  a  gentleman,  and  gentlemen  do 
not  take  advantage  of  an  act  of  folly."  So  saying,  she  was 
gone,  with  a  bang  of  the  door  which  wakened  Adam's  bald- 
headed  neighbor,  and  confirmed  him  in  his  opinion  that  she 
was  an  obstreperous  baggage. 

Adam  prowled  upstairs  and  down,  his  hands  over  his 
ears  to  shut  out  the  sound  of  her  departing  footsteps.  She 
must  have  passed  the  Temple  gates  before  he  dropped  them, 
hating  himself  for  allowing  her  to  go  thus  and  expose 
herself  to  insolent  inquiry.  But  what  could  he  have  done? 
Barbara  had  never  listened  to  reason  from  him :  it  was 
certain  now  that  she  never  would.  He  had  rendered  him- 
self utterly  ridiculous  by  reading  that  wretched  report  oth- 
erwise than  between  the  lines.  What  irony  was  it  that 
had  made  him  for  ever  jealous  of  the  man  he  loved  and 
respected  more  than  any  one  in  the  world?  If  only  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  told  him  what  Barbara  was  doing.  .  .  .  If 


3oo  IN  LONDON 

only  she  had  told  him  what  she  had  done !  An  accursed 
trinity  of  emotions  chased  him  up  and  down  stairs,  chased 
him  out  on  the  roof,  to  hang  over  the  parapet  asking  him- 
self why  after  all  he  was  alive.  ...  If  only  that  bomb  had 
fallen  last  night.  .  .  .  Then  he  remembered  where  bombs' 
were  falling  in  plenty,  and  grew  calm  and  quiet. 

His  charwoman  found  him  already  dressed  and  hungry 
for  breakfast,  the  materials  of  which  she  brought  with  her. 
He-  thought  she  looked  at  him  queerly  as  he  went  into  his 
bedroom  presently  to  get  his  hat  and  gloves.  In  order  to 
say  something  he  mentioned  that  he  might  be  giving  up  the 
rooms  before  long. 

"Dear  me,  sir,"  said,  she,  "I  will  be  sorry.  .  .  .  But  of 
course  things  do  'appen,  don't  they?"  she  sighed.  "It's 
the  war,  I  suppose." 

By  ten  o'clock  he  was  in  Waterloo  Place,  but  he  did*  not 
turn  to  the  right  towards  the  theater:  he  kept  straight 
along  Pall  Mall,  past  the  Athenaeum  Club,  past  the  Trav- 
eler's, the  Reform,  the  Carlton  and  the  Automobile.  Then 
he  entered-  a  building  that  displayed  the  Red  Cross.  "About 
driving-  an  ambulance,"  he  said  to  some  one  who  met  him 
with  an  air  of  interrogation :  he  did  not  notice  whether  he 
spoke-  to  male  or  female. 

Presently  he  was*  in  a  lift,  then  in  a  waiting-room,  then 
talking  to  a  compatriot  of  his  own,  a  comely  and  business- 
like lady.  "The  doctor  is  here  now,"  she  said,  "go  and 
see  what  he  says,  and  then  come  back  to  me." 

The  doctor  said  sharply:  "Why  aren't  you  at  the  Front 
already?" 

Adam  mentioned  various  reasons,  which  he  pooh-poohed 
until,  he  heard  the  name  of  Macfadden  Smith.  Then  he 
waggled  Adam's  arm  about,  declared  he  saw  nothing  the 
matter  with  it,  made  him  out  a  certificate  to  that  effect  and 
presented  him  with  two  bottles  of  lymph.  "You  ought  to 
be  in  the  trenches,"  was  his  farewell, 


AND  SO  THEY  WERE  MARRIED  301 

The  business-like  Irish  lady  just  glanced  at  the  certificate 
and  said:  "When  would  you  like  to  take* your  test?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can,"  said  Adam. 

"You  can  do  it  now  if  you  like,"  she  said. 

"Make  it  so,"  said  Adam,  for  the  doctor's  taunt,  follow- 
ing on  Barbara's,  left  him  indifferent  to  everything  else  but 
the  desire  to  be  done  with  all  he  knew. 

She  scribbled  on  a  piece  of  paper.  "You'll  find  the  am- 
bulance at  the  bottom  of  St.  James's  Street  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,"  said  she ;  "this  is  an  introduction,  to  our  officer 
in  charge." 

Then  it  seemed  to  Adam  that  he  was  transported  direct 
to  the  inside  of  an  ambulance,  which  he  shared  with  a 
heavy-looking  young  man  with  a  provincial  accent:  they 
were  being  driven  up  St.  James's  Street  by  a  middle-aged 
woman  in  some  sort  of  uniform,  who  seemed  chiefly  con- 
cerned to  explain  to  the  Red  Cross  official  beside  her  that 
she  did  not  want  to  drive  a  motor-car,  but  to  cook ;  she  had 
never  driven  before  but  once,  whereas  she  had  been  cook- 
ing all  her  life:  yet  you'd  hardly  believe  it,  the  CO.  said 
he'd  rather  she  drove  than  cooked. 

"I'd  rather  she  cooked  than  drove,"  growled  the  heavy 
young  man,  and  by  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Street  their 
examiner  seemed  to  have  come  to  the  same  conclusion; 
for  Adam  was  called  to  take  his  trick  at  the  wheel. 

There  followed  mere  nightmare;  for  Adam  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  handle  even  the  accustomed  Overland,  and  the 
ambulance  was  a  Buick  and  had  to  be  driven  from  the 
near  side.  He  got  her  turned  into  Berkeley  Street  without 
catastrophe  and  as  far  as  the  corner  of  Hay  Hill.  But 
then  his  troubles  began,  for  at  the  stiffest  piece  of  gradient 
the  examiner  bade  him  stop  dead  and  then  start  up  again. 
Now  Adam  knew  perfectly  the  nature  of  this  test  and 
exactly  the  right  thing  to  do;  but  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  do  it,  and  the  ambulance  would  have  charged 


302  IN  LONDON 

backwards  and  wedged  itself  between  Devonshire  and 
Lansdowne  House  but  for  the  examiner's  controlling  brake. 
Adam  expected  to  be  turned  down  there  and  then,  but  the 
fates  decreed  otherwise.  "Carry  on,"  said  the  official,  not 
unkindly. 

Encouraged  by  his  tone,  Adam  carried  on  and  without 
disaster  tooled  the  Buick  to  the  left  into  Dover  Street, 
right  into  Graf  ton  Street,  right  down  Albemarle  Street,  left 
into  Piccadilly,  right  down  Regent  Street,  left  into  Orange 
Street,  right  into  the  Hay  market  (a  little  flustered  from 
the  bottle-neck),  left  into  Suffolk  Place  and  Trafalgar 
Square,  right  round  the  square  and  back  into  Pall  Mall. 
All  was  going  smoothly  now,  and  Adam  saw  himself  roll- 
ing back  to  their  starting-point  with  reasonable  hope,  when 
he  was  bidden  "take  the  bottle-neck  into  St.  James's 
Square."  He  did  it  successfully,  but  it  strained  his  nerves. 
"Through  Charles  Street  back  into  Regent  Street,"  his 
amiable  tormentor  commanded.  And  then  just  as  he  got 
into  Regent  Street,  passing  the  Grand  stage  door,  an  omni- 
bus swinging  up  from  Waterloo  Place  all  but  struck  him. 
His  companion's  brake  averted  collision,  but,  Adam  re- 
engaging his  engine  with  insufficient  acceleration,  it  stopped 
dead.  Even  now  the  examiner  was  not  altogether  discour- 
aging. "You'll  find  her  easy  to  start  up,"  he  said  as  Adam 
leaped  out. 

But  Adam  did  not  find  her  so.  Starting  up  the  Overland 
had  always  been  a  serious  business,  and  in  such  a  condi- 
tion of  nerves  as  he  found  himself  now,  might  have  been 
beyond  him.  He  imagined  the  compression  of  the  Buick 
to  be  stiffen  Lifting  the  handle  in  the  orthodox  way,  he 
turned  it  twice  with  an  idle  flop,  heard  the  official  say 
something  about  advancing  the  ignition,  and  tried  again,  a 
third  idle  flop.  He  looked  round  feverishly  to  see  his  own 
portrait  grinning  at  him  from  the  walls  of  the  theater,  to 
see  Cerberus  laughing  uproariously  behind  his  oniony  hand 


AND  SO  THEY  WERE  MARRIED  303 

at  the  stage  door,  to  read  a  poster  of  the  Self -Help  Min- 
istry : — 

Help   Yourself! 
If  You  Don't, 
Who  Will? 
Strike  Home! 

Frantically  he  seized  the  starting-handle  again,  and  struck 
home  with  that  downward  thrust  against  which  tyros  are 
explicitly  cautioned.  .  .  .  There  was  a  backfire,  and  the 
starting-handle  leaped  upwards  carrying  his  right  arm  with 
it,  powerless,  but  in  excruciating  pain.  .  .  . 

"I  say,"  said  the  official,  this  time  angrily,  "you  are  a 
mug!  You'd  better  leave  that  engine  to  me." 

Adam  left  it  to  him,  left  it  to  him  completely.  .  .  .  He 
took  no  interest  in  it  whatever,  nor  in  anything  else*  ex- 
cept a  vague  wonderment  why  that  official  had  suddenly 
been  transformed  into  Cynthia  Churchill. 

When  he  next  took  note  of  his  surroundings  he  recog- 
nized nothing,  but  Cynthia  Churchill  was  there  to  explain 
to  him  that  the  ambulance  he  had  proved  himself  unfit  to 
drive  had  been  used  to  convey  him  to  the  Onsins'  house  in 
Kensington,  where  she,  having*  had  some  experience  as  a 
nurse,  had  been  deputed  by  their  hostess  to  look  after  him. 

The  Onsins  had  their  faults,  but  as  hosts  they  were  irre- 
proachable. Never  had  Adam  been  so  pampered  as  during 
the  following  weeks.  Never  had  be  been  so  cherished  by 
any  woman  as  by  gentle  Cynthia  Churchill.  And  she  was 
tactful  too,  hinting  no  word  that  could  trouble  him  on  any 
subject,  though  puzzled  to  dismay  at  his  annoyance  when 
the  papers  appeared  once  again  with  his  portrait  and  starred 
the  information  that  he  was  a  brilliant  young  Irish  actor, 
who  had  met  with  a  desperate  accident  while  driving  an 
ambulance  in  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  London  traf- 


304  IN  LONDON 

fie.  Some,  though  not  all  the  papers,  added  the  portrait 
of  Miss  Churchill  herself,  explaining  that  she  was  the 
beautiful  young  Scots  actress  who  had  momentarily  relin- 
quished her  duties  of  understudying  that  world-famous 
comedienne,  Miss  Belinda  Bellingham  (Mrs.  Oswald  On- 
sin),  in  order  to  devote  herself  to  nursing  the  brilliant 
young  Irish  actor  as  aforesaid  at  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin's 
wonderful  house  overlooking  Kensington  Palace. 

And  some  again  gave  portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oswald 
Onsin,  in  whose  wonderful  house,  etc.,  that  brilliant  young 
Irish  actor,  and  so  on. 

Adam  wondered  if  Barbara  could  fail  to  see  all  those 
portraits  and  read  all  those  paragraphs.  If  she  did,  she 
gave  no  sign,  and  he  concluded  that  once  for  all  she  was 
done  with  him. 

It  was  quite  a  month  after  the  accident,  and  Mrs.  Onsin 
in  her  robust  way  was  bantering  him  at  dinner  as  to 
whether  he  and  Miss  Churchill  proposed  to  go  on  for  ever 
living  in  sin,  when  a  letter  was  handed  Adam  bearing  the 
St.  John's  Wood  postmark.  It  simply  ran,  in  Barbara's 
least  legible  writing:  "How  could  you  have  been  so  un- 
utterably callous?"  .  .  .  Whether  the  word  was  "callous" 
or  "careless"  he  could  not  quite  make  out,  not  being  cer- 
tain to  what  she  referred.  But  there  could  be  no  mistake 
about  the  second  line:  "You  had  better  come  and  see  me 
at  once." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT 
AND  LIVED  HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER? 

A  PREMATURELY  spring-like  January  day  burst  on  the  Mary- 
lebone  Road,  along  which  Adam  had  trudged  to  meet  Mr. 
Macarthy  on  such  another  morning  three  years  before. 
Hardly  dare  one  say  that  London  was  at  peace;  but  the 
thunder  of  the  guns  had  died  down  at  last  on  the  Western 
Front;  a  quire  of  the  mouths  that  rolled  it  lay  silent  in 
St.  James's  Park;  and  optimists  declared  that  the  last  saga 
of  brute  heroism  had  been  sung.  Pessimists,  notably  those 
who  had  brought  about  the  war,  sermonized  on  the  text  that 
the  world  was  now  worse  off  than  ever,  and  nothing  could 
save  her  from  herself  but  wars  more  awful  still.  Profiteers 
of  all  classes  and  kinds,  colors  and  creeds,  soldiers  and 
civilians,  echoed  the  sentiment,  having  now  a  vested  inter- 
est in  the  international  slaughter-house. 

So  much  for  the  great  world  of  Lord  Bulwark  and  his 
peers.  In  Adam's  humbler  sphere  the  notable  event  was 
that  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar's  decree  had  been  made  absolute, 
and  that  very  morning  Barbara  was  forging  for  herself 
fresh  bonds. 

No  less  beautiful,  though  perhaps  less  sylph-like,  than 
of  yore,  Barbara  came  out  of  the  Marylebone  Registrar's 
office,  and  was  handed  by  Adam 'into  a  taxi  which  stood 
waiting  with  a  trifle  of  his  luggage,  and  rather  more  than 
a  trifle  of  hers,  upon  the  roof.  With  Adam  beside  her  the 
bride  whirled  off  towards  Paddington,  past  a  spot  new 
poster  showing  a  gentleman  in  a  nightdress  chasing  a  lady 
in  pyjamas,  and  challenging  all  comers  to  say:  "Who  Can 
Stop  It?" 

305 


306  IN  LONDON 

From  the  porch  of  the  office  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Macarthy 
and  Miss  Nightingale  followed  the  taxi:  hers  were  humid 
with  emotion,  his  more  than  ever  sphinx-like. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Macarthy  paused  after  the  taxi  had 
turned  to  dust.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  unpromising 
facade  of  Madame  Tussaud's.  "I  wonder,"  said  he,  "how 
many  persons  who  once  figured  at  this  office  are  figuring 
now  in  the  most  popular  gallery  across  the  road." 

"Stephen,"  cried  Miss  Nightingale,  with  tender  remon- 
strance :  "how  can  you  be  cynical  at  such  a  moment  ?" 

"I  am  no  more  cynical  at  such  a  moment  than  was 
Paul,"  said  he. 

Her  voice  was  low,  but  intense,  as  she  rejoined:  "Even 
Paul  said  it  was  better  to  marry  than  to  burn." 

Mr.  Macarthy  gently  shook  his  head.  "Do  you  think 
he  said  so  to  the  pious  Thecla?" 

"Who  was  she?"  Miss  Nightingale  asked,  with  bewil- 
derment in  her  exquisite  blue  eyes,  which  deepened  as  Mr. 
Macarthy  bade  her  quote  no  more  gospels  until  she  had 
read  them  all. 

"But  I  have,"  she  answered,  "at  least  I  think  so.'* 

Very  politely  he  replied :  "I  think  not.  Only  those  that 
Rizzio's  son  selected  for  your  perusal." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  as  one  hopeless  of 
understanding. 

He  declared :  "You  know  quite  well,"  and  upset  her  still 
further  by  adding:  "Who  shall  say  that  the  West  is  wiser 
than  the  East?" 

She  laughed  nervously.  "Really,  Stephen,  sometimes  I 
think  you  are  quite  mad." 

"I  was  mad  once,"  he  replied,  "and  the  blame  lies  at  your 
door." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  she  cried,  with  eyes  turned  joyful,  "you 
never  really  cared." 

Whatever  his  thought,  Mr.  Macarthy's  tone  was  stern: 


AND  LIVED  HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER?       307 

"It  was  the  madness  of  my  love  for  you  that  drove  me  to 
write  What  Rot!" 

Her  face  fell,  horrified.  "Stephen!  .  .  .  You  don't 
mean  to  say?" 

He  nodded  lugubriously.  "Lucina  Lovelace  is  a  projec- 
tion of  yourself  as  I  visualized  you  when  I  was  drunk." 

Her  appearance  showed  that  she  believed  herself  to  be 
shocked.  "You  actually  got  drunk?" 

"Could  I  have  written  it  if  I  were  sober?"  he  demanded. 
Then  he  kissed  her  hand  and  went  on:  "Do  not  blush. 
In  the  play  as  I  wrote  it,  the  hero  did  not  unveil  the  hero- 
ine. Nor  was  the  incident  so  spiritedly  illustrated  on  the 
poster  over  there  invented  by  me.  These  are  flashes  of 
Mr.  Onsin's  genius;  and  to  render  unto  Caesar  the  things 
that  are  Caesar's,  I  have  no  doubt  they  make  the  success 
of  the  play.  But  the  characters,  so  far  as  they  exist,  and 
the  idea,  if  one  may  call  it  so,  are  mine.  Above  all,  I  claim 
the  title.  That  at  least  is  a  work  of  art!  ...  Mr.  Onsin 
wished  to  call  it  'Chase  Me,  Algy !'  so  I  added  the  sub-title, 
cribbed  from  Hardy,  'The  Pursuit  of  the  Well-Beloved.' " 

"Please  say  no  more,"  begged  Miss  Nightingale. 

"Thank  you  for  that,"  he  said  heartily;  "this  shall  be  a 
secret  between  us  that  I  know  you  will  not  confide  to 
Adam.  He  is  too  young  to  understand,  and  might  make 
my  tragedy  a  precedent  for  a  worse  one  of  his  own." 

"Stephen,"  said  Miss  Nightingale,  "you  have  turned  this 
happy  morning  into  a  miserable  one  by  trying  to  persuade 
me  that  I  led  you  to  use  your  beautiful  brain  in  producing 
such  infamy  as  that  play." 

"Tut!  my  dear  Jane,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "be  easy  in 
your  mind.  You  like  Adam,  you  know  you  do;  so  does 
everybody,  as  Barbara  will  presently  find  out." 

"Adam  will  never  do  anything  wrong,"  said  Miss  Night- 
ingale fervently. 

"If  Adam  never  does  anything  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Macar- 


308  IN  LONDON 

thy,  "that  will  be  mainly  because  you  induced  me  to  write 
What  Rot!"  He  nodded  at  her  gravely.  "It  is  true,  my 
dear  Jane,  though  you  look  at  me  as  if  I  had  seven  heads. 
If  I  had  not  written  What  Rot!  Adam  might  still  be  in  his 
Dublin  slum,  he  might  be  at  Maynooth  learning  to  preach 
the  local  variety  of  your  religion,  he  might  be  an  Irish 
police  spy  and  brothel-keeper,  he  might  be  a  British  cap- 
tain or  a  Sinn  Fein  private.  .  .  .  God  only  knows,  he 
might  even  be  doing  something  useful." 

"He  is  doing  something  useful,"  she  insisted ;  "I  feel  sure 
of  that,  Stephen."  And  her  face  flushed  with  a  rare  warmth 
of  color  as  Mr.  Macarthy  took  out  his  watch  and  smiling 
his  sphinx-like  smile,  said  nothing. 

Presently  he  offered  her  his  arm,  which,  despite  a  reluc- 
tant gesture,  she  accepted.  And  walking  slowly  down 
Park  Lane,  they  were  about  that  place  whence  Adam  had 
watched  Victorious  Peace  galloping  on  search-lights 
towards  the  stars,  when  he  said :  "You  spoke  of  my  beau- 
tiful brain  just  now,  my  dear  Jane,  but  yours  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  minds  I  know.  ...  If  you  had  the 
smallest  grasp  of  reality  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  and  dropped 
her  arm:  "What  really  interests  me  now  is  the  question, 
What  becomes  of  Adam?" 

Her  face,  that  had  been  radiant  a  moment  ago,  fell  hag- 
gard. "Am  I  so  little  to  you  as  that  ?"  she  queried  sharply. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  much  tenderness. 
"Littleness  and  you  cannot  be  mentioned  in  one  breath," 
he  declared,  "and  surely  we  hold  the  common  faith  that  the 
future  is  greater  than  the  past?" 


I£S!2££  H  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000007981    4 


